


State of Disgrace

by writeonclara



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Canon-Typical Violence, Detective Sam Winchester, Gabriel Big Bang Challenge, Ghost Gabriel, Happy Ending, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-21 21:07:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 40,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7404802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeonclara/pseuds/writeonclara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Injured detective Sam Winchester is forced on long term disability after taking a bullet to the hip. Living in a loft is obviously out, but Sam's not so sure his new apartment is much better. The space is nice, but he could do without the prank-playing dead guy for a roommate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Gabriel Big Bang 2016](http://gabrielbigbang.dreamwidth.org/).
> 
> Thank you to lyingheartedgirl for helping me throughout this fic as a beta, cheerleader, and incredible friend. Special thanks to [Captain_D_Leet](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_D_Leet/pseuds/Captain_D_Leet) for being a super awesome partner, friend, and beta for this big bang. She's responsible for all the beautiful artwork for this fic and has been a wonderful friend throughout. Couldn't have asked for a better partner! 
> 
> All mistakes are mine.
> 
> Links to Captain_D_Leet's gorgeous artwork:  
> [Header](http://captain-d-leet.deviantart.com/art/State-of-Disgrace-Gabriel-Big-Bang-2016-619899019)  
> [Under the Milky Way](http://captain-d-leet.deviantart.com/art/State-of-Disgrace-GBB2016-Under-the-Milky-Way-619900056)  
> [Scene Divider 1](http://captain-d-leet.deviantart.com/art/State-of-Disgrace-GBB-2016-Scene-Divider-619899477)  
> [Scene Divider 2](http://captain-d-leet.deviantart.com/art/State-of-Disgrace-GBB-2016-Scene-Divider-2-619899804)
> 
> Go give her love!

  
  
[Header](http://captain-d-leet.deviantart.com/art/State-of-Disgrace-Gabriel-Big-Bang-2016-Header-619899019) by [captain_d_leet](http://captain-d-leet.tumblr.com)

# State of Disgrace

_“Sammy!”_

Sam grinned at his brothers familiar drawl crackling over the line. It sounded like he was driving with all the windows down. “Hey, Dean. What’s up?”

_“Heading home,”_ Dean said, voice too loud to compensate for his own inability to hear Sam. _“How’d the move go?”_

Sam cut a glance to his kitchen. It was half full of cardboard boxes. He wasn’t looking forward to putting everything away. “It’s—getting there,” he admitted. “The movers set everything up. Now it’s just the small stuff.”

_“Sorry I can’t get there ‘til later,”_ Dean said, with familiar gruff concern.

“It's fine.”

_“I might be able to—”_

“Drop it, Dean,” Sam snapped, sharper than was strictly necessary. It was just like Dean to take on way more responsibility than he needed to when it came to Sam. Dean was Dean; in his eyes, Sam would always be the shrimpy fourteen year old picked on by Dirk the Jerk. Sam didn’t mind it for the most part, but these days it just a harsh reminder about how useless he was.

Dean was silent and Sam would have thought he dropped the call if it weren't for the rushing air filtering through the phone. Sam sighed, “Look, man, I'm sorry. It's been a long day.”

_“Yeah,”_ Dean said, falsely cheerful.

It used to be that Dean would have demanded to know if it was his time of the month or something, but these days even Dean walked delicately around him, as if he had been dropped too many times and was just one wrong word away from shattering into a million pieces. It made Sam want to hurl his phone across the room. Instead, he carefully sank into the couch.

“No, really,” Sam said. “When you visit, I’ll take you to In-n-Out.”

_“Alright, you're back in my good graces,”_ Dean said, grin back in his voice.

“You’ll be here in a week? Two?”

_“Two,”_ Dean said. _“Gotta finish up a project at Bobby’s and then I’m clear for the rest of the month.”_

Sam grinned. It would be good seeing Dean again. “Awesome. See you then, dude.”

Dean ended the call and Sam’s smile dropped. He sighed and tossed his phone on the coffee table. Talking to Dean like that made it easy to forget he—wasn’t what he used to be. 

Sam sank into the cushions, gritting his teeth against the pain radiating from his hip. He thought he’d been taking it easy, having the movers do all the heavy lifting and focusing on unpacking the kitchenware, but the dull ache that had started up in the morning had slowly escalated through the day until he was forced to duck into his room while the movers finished banging around in his apartment.

And wasn’t that fucking great. He couldn’t even manage to put away the plates. At this rate, he’d finish unpacking the kitchen by Christmas.

The apartment was older than his previous loft, but a necessary improvement: no way could he make it up those stairs to his bed every night. His sofa was long enough to hold the bulk of his body, but it wasn’t doing any favors to his hip. And maybe the apartment was missing double pane windows and other modern conveniences, but it was spacious and well lit. There was even a balcony spanning the living room to the master bedroom and high, peaked ceilings that kept him from going crazy from claustrophobia, now that his mobility was limited. 

Sam sighed, draining the rest of his bottle in one go, practically hearing Dean bitch him out for self-medicating. He clunked his bottle onto the coffee table. Maybe he should have called ahead and got his cable set up. He wasn't big on TV, never exactly had a schedule where he could follow a show, but it would have been nice to put on something for background noise.

He pushed himself up with a groan, then had to grab the arm of his couch to keep himself from collapsing back again.

There was a man in a green jacket and jeans at his kitchen table, hands braced against the surface. He looked like he was trying to catch his breath, drawing in deep gasps.

“Hey!” Sam snapped, taking a step toward him.

The man’s head jerked up. He looked badly startled, as if _Sam_ had snuck up on him, what the fuck.

“Ah,” the man said, sheepishly, then vanished with a flicker.

Sam stood in the middle of his new apartment, eyes wide and empty bottle dangling precariously between his thumb and forefinger.

What the _fuck_.

  


  


It was possible Sam was going crazy.

There was no way someone could have gotten into his apartment—he'd checked, the door was locked, and unless someone sprouted wings and flew up to the fourth floor, there was no way anyone was getting in through his balcony. Maybe one of the movers had forgotten something and Sam had just—imagined him vanishing.

He didn’t get much sleep that first night.

The man in the green jacket didn’t reappear the second day, so Sam tentatively began unpacking his apartment. It took him most the day to organize the kitchen, but by late afternoon he’d gotten it into an order he could work with. He needed to stock his refrigerator. There was a Safeway down the street. It was as good a time as any to go, he supposed, so he shuffled to the door to grab his coat, ignoring the cane leaning pointedly in the corner of his closet.

He grabbed the bare minimum from the grocery store, not relishing the idea of making multiple trips back to his car. At least the elevator was just down a short hall from his door. It wasn't ideal, being dependent on an elevator to get to and from his apartment, but whatever, he'd deal. 

There was a man standing stiffly in front of the elevator back at the apartment complex, staring at it like he expected the hounds of hell to come bounding out. Sam eased up to his side, glancing uncertainly at him. 

“Are—you alright?” Sam asked, slowly.

The man looked at him, eyes wide like he was startled. He reminded Sam of a rumpled puppy, complete with a confused expression and black hair sticking up all over the place.

“I am waiting for the elevator,” the man said, voice like fingers raked softly through gravel.

Sam glanced at the elevator, then back at the guy. “Uh, you have to—” He gestured at the button. When the man just continued to stare at him, Sam reached past him to press the up button.

And he’d been so sure the complex was normal before he signed the lease.

“I see,” the man said, frowning at the elevator like it had personally betrayed all his expectations.

Sam huffed a laugh, shifting his weight to his good leg. “How long have you been waiting here?”

“Four minutes, twenty-one seconds.”

When he was younger, Sam used to like watching the original Star Trek series. (Dean used to call him a giant nerd for liking it, but Sam knew he watched from the kitchen.) He always thought Mr. Spock was so cool. Maybe that was why he grinned at the guy and said, “I'm Sam. You live here?”

The man approached the question like a complicated equation. After considering it for an unnecessary amount of time, he said, “Yes. On the fourth floor.”

Definitely a weirdo. Sam shook his head as the elevator doors pinged open, carefully stepping in. The man took in his limp and the way he favored his left leg, but didn't say a thing. So maybe he was a weirdo, but he was at least a polite weirdo.

“What's your name?”

“Castiel,” the man said. 

A beat of silence, then Sam reached past him to press the button for the fourth floor. “I'm beginning to think you're new to earth,” Sam joked.

He thought he saw Castiel jerk slightly, but when he turned back to the other man, Castiel’s face was blank.

“I do not leave often.”

That was an odd way to word things. “Don’t get out much?”

“I do not,” Castiel said.

“Well, if you ever want to grab a drink or a bite to eat, let me know,” Sam said, figuring he might as well attempt to make friends in this new town.

Castiel tilted his head to the side, still reminding Sam of a confused puppy. “Thank you. I believe I would enjoy that.”

Sam grinned and shook his head slightly. Such a weirdo.

The elevator pinged to the fourth floor and Sam was a little surprised when they headed in the same direction. When Castiel stepped up to the door next to Sam’s, Sam said, “Oh, we’re neighbors.”

Castiel looked at Sam’s door, then at his own. “Yes.”

“That’s cool,” Sam said. He pulled out his own keys to open his apartment door. “I’ll see you around, Castiel.”

“Goodbye, Sam.”

When Sam got back into his apartment, all his cups and plates were out of the cabinets and stacked neatly on his coffee table.

  


  


The second night was spent much like the third, except with slightly more tossing and turning. Sam had never actually believed in the supernatural. He usually needed concrete evidence before he was convinced something was real.

The ghost was providing him with pretty concrete evidence. Sam had put away his plates and cups the night before. The next morning, they were back on the table.

“Ghosts don't exist,” Sam informed the room, folding his arms over his chest.

The TV turned on in response.

Sam stood his ground, though his heart did a funny little twitch and his breath picked up. “You aren't real.”

The TV switched to a channel where a buff brown haired man was enthusiastically pounding into a moaning blond twink against a kitchen counter.

Sam fled back to his bedroom.

  


“Sam?” Dean demanded before his phone even finished ringing. “What's wrong?”

He was probably being overprotective, but Sam only ever called when there was something wrong these days. They talked regularly, but it was always Dean who called. He _knew_ he should have left earlier. If he left now and drove all night, he should be able to get to the Bay Area in—

_“I'm being haunted by a dead pervert!”_

Dean pulled his phone away from his ear to look at it suspiciously. “What did you say?”

_“A perverted ghost!”_

So Dean had heard him right, though he still wasn't making any sense. Dean sat on his couch, lifting the phone back to his ear. “Look, Sammy, I know it's been a rough couple of months—”

_“Don't be a dick,”_ Sam snapped and okay, he didn't sound like he was going crazy, but Dean had done his research and knew all about PTSD. _“There is a ghost. In my new apartment. Who is watching something called Casa Erotica. On repeat.”_ There was a beat of silence, then Sam continued, slightly strangled, _“The gay version.”_

Dean laughed.

_“It’s not funny!”_

It really was, but Sam was beginning to sound panicked so Dean muffled his laughter into a cough. “Right, okay, so you're being haunted by a gay ghost who really likes his porn—” He sputtered a laugh again, because seriously? 

Sam waited with almost tangible impatience until Dean regained control. _“Are you done?”_ he asked, pissy.

“Yeah, yeah. Though I gotta say, Sammy, only you would get haunted by a porn-obsessed gay ghost.” If there was a ghost, which there wasn't. There was no harm in humoring the kid as long as he didn't get, like, fanatical. This was the first time in months that Sam sounded excited about something, instead of like he was an overheated tea kettle about to burst from too much pressure.

_“You've got to help me figure out how to exorcise it,”_ Sam hissed, as if he was afraid the ghost was eavesdropping.

“Really,” Dean asked, flatly.

_“Yes, really. I am not going to room with—with a pervert!”_

“Okay, okay. Don’t get your panties in a twist, Samantha.” Dean leaned over to grab his ancient laptop from his coffee table, popping it open. It had been forced on him years ago, when Sam had upgraded to a newer, sleeker Macbook. ‘You can't be completely disconnected,’ Sam had said. Dean hadn't been, he had a cellphone, but he'd taken it so Sam would shut up. “Have you looked anything up yet?”

Sam was silent for a suspiciously long moment, then said, shortly, _“My laptop is in the family room.”_

It sounded more like his hip was bugging him than him being too chicken shit to get it, so Dean tactfully kept his mouth shut and typed ‘exorcising ghosts’ in the search bar.

_“Just send me what you can, okay? I'll find what I can on my phone.”_

“I gotta tell you, I have no idea what's legit and what's bullshit,” Dean said, scrolling through the pages of results.

_“Send them all. I'm willing to try anything.”_

  


  


Sam had to run to several stores to pick up everything he needed for the ‘cleansing’ (and Jesus, Dean was going to have ammo on him forever). He found sage at the local grocery store and a bag of cedar mulch at a Home Depot, but couldn't find sweetgrass for the life of him and ended up ordering a braid of it through Amazon on his phone. Hopefully, he could get away with not having any.

He felt silly waving around a chipped bowl filled with burning sage and cedar, but he diligently made sure to waft the smoke into every corner. It smelled pleasant, earthy, like burning damp, freshly cut wood.

Behind him, there was a disembodied sneeze.

Sam whirled around, waving away the thick white smoke that momentarily covered his vision.

There was no one in the kitchen.

Sam sighed, setting the charred bowl into the sink and filling it with cold water.

Hopefully that worked. He doubted his neighbor appreciated the sound of men enthusiastically screwing all day and night. Sam certainly didn’t.

  


  


**Dean: Did the smoke work**

**Sam: it sneezed**

**Sam: then stuck my chairs to the ceiling**

A moment later, Dean’s phone buzzed with a new picture. Dean expanded it, eyes widening when he saw that, yes, all four of Sam's chairs were stuck upside down to the ceiling. He knew they were Sam’s chairs, because they had once belonged to John, but Sam needed somewhere to eat after he graduated from college and the old fold out table just wasn't going to cut it anymore.

**Dean: Dude**

**Dean: U actually have a ghost**

**Dean: What the actual fuck**

**Sam: told you**

**Sam: i have to eat at my coffee table now :(**

**Dean: Ur ghost is a dick**

  


  


Sam had a small box that held some of his mother’s old belongings: a pair of diamond earrings, her wedding band, a rosary made out of tiger eye beads, a small journal she had carried around to note down random thoughts throughout the day. It was the rosary he carefully pulled out, letting it spill into the palm of his hand.

According to several articles, he should be able to compel the spirit to leave, if it were evil.

Sam had stopped praying a long time ago; he hated to be a cliche, but over the years in Homicide, after one too many mothers drowning their babies, or husbands viciously murdering their wives, he’d had trouble keeping up with his faith.

But he still remembered all the prayers, so he hobbled to the kitchen where the ghost seemed to like hanging out. It had taken three hours for his furniture to crash back to the ground. Sam had to eat dinner on the couch. He was still a little bitter about that.

Sam cleared his throat, holding his mother’s rosary out with one hand. “Our Father, who art in Heaven…”

  


  


**Dean: Did the rosary work**

**Sam: he turned the porn on in the middle of a hail mary**

**Sam: i feel blasphemous**

Dean probably shouldn’t laugh. Ghosts were real. Specifically, a real perverted ghost was haunting his baby brother. He should be shocked and horrified, and definitely not amused.

**Sam: i can hear you laughing in kansas**

**Sam: jerk**

**Dean: Bitch**

  


  


The apartment had been transformed to a battleground: Sam had his room, the ghost had claimed the kitchen and TV as his territory, and the couch was the neutral zone. It made cooking meals difficult, what with the stove’s settings changing every five seconds. Eventually, Sam gave up and started ordering delivery. He hadn't eaten this bad since the triple homicide case back in ‘13.

Ever since Sam had started his campaign, the ghost was gradually becoming more active. He didn’t just watch _Casa Erotica_ these days; sometimes, Sam would step out of the room to find Dr. Sexy on TV before it quickly switched to porn, as if the ghost found bad medical dramas more embarrassing than hardcore gay porn.

His floors were always littered with spices. Just the night before he’d watched one of his cabinets slowly open and a small jar of nutmeg float out, before immediately dropping to the tiles and rolling under the refrigerator, like it had slipped from the ghost’s fingers.

The ghost had been particularly insufferable that night.

Sam cautiously stepped out of his bedroom, closing the door behind him. He strolled into the kitchen at a casual pace, pulling out a chair to sit in. The magnets, which had been zooming across his refrigerator door froze. A second later, the chair across from Sam’s pulled out.

Sam wondered when that stopped being startling. He rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward.

“You need to leave.”

Unsurprisingly, the TV turned on. Sam wondered if it was easier to control electronics than it was to appear in a more corporeal form, like the first day. The channels flipped rapidly, stopping at specific channels, until a weirdly emphatic sentence formed: a porn star moaning out ‘I’; a sophisticated black lady stating ‘was’; a kid shouting ‘here!’ a large white man saying ‘first’.

_I was here first._

“You don’t even need a home!” Sam protested. “You’re dead. Can’t you just go wherever dead people go and just leave me alone?”

‘No,’ said an incredibly smug business man.

“Look,” Sam snapped, gripping the edge of the table. “I’ve had a rough year, alright? I moved here so I can rest.”

_Not my problem_ , the jumble of TV snippets said.

“I was _shot_ , you asshole!”

This time, the TV didn’t answer verbally. Instead, the sorrowful strains of a violin drifted from the speakers. Sam tensed, then sagged back into his chair, frustrated. It was probably tactless to complain about being injured to someone who was _dead_.

“Can you at least stop with the porn?” Sam finally pleaded.

In response, the TV switched to _Casa Erotica._

Sam dropped his head in his hands.

  


  


**Dean: Gonna guess asking him politely didn't work**

**Sam: you'd be right**

**Dean: I found something. U can use salt to trap a ghost**

**Dean: Like in a room**

**Sam: how the hell am I supposed to do that????**

**Dean: Figure it out**

  


  


It was actually easier than Sam expected it to be.

He managed to line salt across the kitchen window and where the tile met the carpet without the ghost interrupting him at all, not even with inappropriate porn. The ghost just distractedly continued to drop spices all over the floor.

“There,” Sam said, straightening up. He cringed when his hip immediately protested, but he was too triumphant to let it get him down.

The spices stopped dropping to the floor; the ghost was interested now that Sam had completed his task. Sam stepped back and over the line, careful not to break it. He was grinning.

He didn't see or hear the ghost follow him, of course, but he _did_ see when the ghost slammed up into the invisible barrier and flickered into the figure of a badly startled man in a green jacket and jeans.

He was short, with a narrow face and light brown hair and eyes. His eyes were surprisingly soft considering all that porn he enjoyed watching. He reminded Sam of a coyote, wiry and deceptively—cute, but with a hidden, sharp mouth that was currently twisted down in a moue of displeasure.

“Oh now, come _on_. Salt? Seriously? I am so insulted.”

“It worked?” Sam said, surprised.

“Of course it did,” the ghost snapped.

“I didn't think it would work.”

“That’s just—great. An idiot trapped me with a table condiment.” The ghost sighed. “Good job. You caught me, bucko,” the smaller man said, spreading his arms. “What are you going to do with me?”

Sam's mind blanked out. That was a good question. He fished his phone out of his pocket and pressed on Dean’s name in the recent call history.

“I trapped him in the kitchen with salt,” Sam told Dean before he could even say hello. “What do I do with him now?”

_“I didn't think that would work_ ,” Dean said, blankly.

“I _know_. How do I get rid of him so that I can use my kitchen again?”

“ _Give me a second_.” There was a click of keys on the other line. The ghost strode across the kitchen to flop onto one of the chairs, watching Sam expectantly. Sam leaned against the wall frame, trying not to feel self-conscious. For a ghost, the man seemed awfully—lively, and Sam felt a bit like he was plotting murder with his brother. It didn't help when Dean cleared his throat and continued with, “ _You have to salt and burn his bones_.”

“I have to do _what_?” 

The ghost whistled and said, dryly, “Sounds grisly,” because being a ghost apparently meant having super good hearing. Sam made a face at him and turned away.

“I am not going to do that. That's not even legal,” Sam said, pacing across his family room. “Isn't there anything else I can do?”

“ _You can try reasoning with it again,_ ” Dean said, doubtfully.

“Because that worked so well the first time,” the ghost piped in, smugly. 

“You shut up,” Sam snapped, the sighed into the phone. “I'll talk to you later, Dean.” He ended the call and dropped the phone in his back pocket.

The ghost was watching him curiously, lips curled at the corners in a pretty arrogant smile for someone who was _dead_. 

“So, what now?” the ghost asked.


	2. Chapter 2

There was a dead man sitting in his kitchen.

He had been sitting there the whole night, glaring at Sam accusingly whenever he dared to duck out of his room.

“You know,” the ghost said, the second time Sam slunk out of his room like a guilty cat, “this is cruel and unusual.”

Sam folded his arms over his chest. “Subjecting me to hours and hours of porn is cruel and unusual.”

The corners of the ghost’s lips curled up into a wicked smirk. “No, _that_ was funny.”

“I'm going out. Don't go far,” Sam said, brightly.

The ghost looked mildly impressed. “That was incredibly bitchy.”

Sam left.

When he returned, the ghost was standing at the edge of the salt line, scowling down at it. He kicked it, but his foot bounced back and his expression went from ‘stormy’ to ‘comically startled.’

“Come on,” the ghost wheedled as Sam settled onto the couch and pulled out take out containers from a greasy paper bag. “You can't leave me here forever.”

“Try me,” Sam said, reveling in the silent TV.

The ghost sighed and stomped back to his chair.

Sam really shouldn't have been surprised when the ghost started to hum. Sam ignored him. The ghost hummed louder, and Sam abruptly frowned down at his chow mein.

“Are you humming _Dancing Queen_?” Sam demanded, twisting around to glare at the ghost over the back of his couch.

The ghost’s persistent smirk stretched into an absolutely delighted grin. “I _knew_ it. You're a closet Abba fan! Oh, kid, there's nothing to be ashamed of—we all have our guilty pleasures. Mine aren't _nearly_ as embarrassing.” The ghost’s eyebrows furrowed, and something flashed across his expression for the briefest of seconds, before it melted into a grin again. “I don't think.”

“I'm not—I don't like—” Sam sputtered, then twisted back around, ears burning.

The ghost resumed humming.

“Alright!” Sam snapped, slamming his plastic utensils onto the coffee table and shoving to his feet. He stalked over the salt line, still careful not to break it, and dropped into the chair across from the ghost. 

He was being stupid. The ghost had already proved he could lift solid objects and he obviously didn’t like Sam. There wasn’t much Sam would be able do if the ghost decided to haul out his steak knives.

The ghost just grinned at him. “Welcome to my humble abode,” he said, waving at the table. “Let me show you around: there's the refrigerator, that's the sink—”

“I liked you better when you talked through the TV,” Sam sighed.

“Liar,” the ghost said.

“Why don't you want to leave?” Sam asked, before the conversation could derail any further than it already had.

The ghost shook his head, drumming his fingers in an erratic pattern on the table. “See, here's the thing: it’s not really a matter of ‘want’.”

Sam winced. “So all those articles about asking a ghost to kindly go to the light well are garbage?”

“The only light in my life right now is you, pumpkin,” the ghost said, waggling his eyebrows.

It wasn't like it was shocking that the ghost would hit on him, considering the concerning amount of gay porn Sam had the dubious pleasure of seeing (and hearing) this past week, but he was still—surprised. 

Of course, it was more likely the ghost was just being a dick.

“You're—not what I expected,” Sam admitted.

“Oh if you only knew how many people probably said that about me,” the ghost said, sighing wistfully. 

Sam bit. “‘Probably?’”

The ghost clapped and bounced to his feet, pacing in long strides across the kitchen. He would disappear halfway into the closed refrigerator on every other turn. It was unnerving. “See, that's the thing. I have absolutely no idea who I am.”

“You can't remember who you are, but you remember Abba?” Sam asked, skeptically.

“The mind is a mysterious thing,” the ghost said, seriously.

That was true. Sam knew that the science around memory was ambiguous, at best, but seriously? An amnesiac ghost? “Do you remember your name?”

The ghost faltered in mid-step. His smug smirk tumbled into a tiny, perplexed frown. “They call me—Gabriel.”

“‘They?’ Who are ‘they’?”

“Everyone,” Gabriel said, lifting his eyes to Sam's face. “I think.” 

“Okay, Gabriel,” Sam said, trying the name out. It fit unexpectedly well, like the name was made for him. “There's got to be something we can use to figure out who you are. Do you have any wounds?”

Gabriel stared at him, strangely intent. It really was an inappropriate time for Sam to notice that his eyes were a lot lighter than he first realized, almost like warm honey.

“What?” Sam asked, uncomfortable.

“You just spent the last week trying to exorcise me,” Gabriel said. “Forgive me for being a little suspicious when you suddenly decide you want to help me.”

Sam pointed at his own chest with his thumb. “Detective.”

“Ah, so it's compulsive.”

Sam thought that Gabriel was mocking him, but he just shrugged. It was true. “Pretty much.”

“Well, I got nothin’.” Gabriel pulled up his shirt, revealing a soft, scar-free stomach. A thin line of tawny hair trailed down his stomach, disappearing under his jeans.

Sam quickly got up and grabbed a beer from his refrigerator.

When he sat down again, Gabriel had dropped his shirt. Sam popped the cap off on the edge of the table, which was so bad for it but the table had seen better days. Forty years ago.

“I might be able to get more information about you,” Sam hedged. He shouldn't abuse the database for personal issues, especially now that he was on long term disability, but there was no harm in looking. He couldn’t just leave the ghost pacing in his kitchen for all eternity. They would both go insane.

“So weird,” Gabriel said, shaking his head. “Alright, kiddo. Knock yourself out.”

  


  


There were no men who fit Gabriel’s description, not even in the John Doe list. Of course, Sam wasn’t even completely sure his real name was even Gabriel, which meant all really he had to go on was: caucasian male, brown hair, brown eyes, 5’8”.

Sam sighed and settled back into his couch. Gabriel was at the kitchen table, concentrating with single-minded intent on sliding a bottle of cinnamon across the table from hand to hand. Sometimes the bottle would fly right through his palm. When that happened, Gabriel’s face would screw up in annoyance, but he would just snatch up the bottle and start all over again.

Sam stretched an arm over the back of his couch, watching him. Dean always did accuse him of being a ‘soft fucking touch’ when it came to people who needed help.

“I can feel you staring at me, Moose. Like what you see?”

Sam snorted. “Height jokes. Very original.”

Gabriel popped up to his feet, striding over to the couch. Sam had given in and hoovered up the salt line. For the time being, there would be no getting rid of Gabriel, and it really was cruel to leave him trapped in the kitchen when he already had such a limited amount of space. Gabriel was like a trapped animal, pacing around the apartment like it was his cage. Sam supposed it was. He really couldn’t imagine how someone with Gabriel’s level of energy was dealing with being cooped up in a 900 square foot apartment.

The answer was: badly.

Gabriel slid onto the couch beside Sam, curling his legs beneath him and getting right up into Sam’s personal space. It was disconcerting, knowing that someone was close enough to press their arm against yours, but only feeling a cool tingling buzz of electric instead of a warm press of skin.

Sam still tensed. “Personal bubble, dude.”

“I don’t even have a body,” Gabriel said, rolling his eyes. He reached over to the track pad.

The computer gave a _crack!_ of protest and blacked out. A second later, smoke billowed out from behind the screen.

“Oh,” Gabriel said, drawing his hand back. 

“My computer,” Sam said, slowly.

“Accident,” Gabriel said, holding his hands up in self-defense. “Did _not_ expect that to happen.”

Sam snapped it shut, irritated. Little sparks were jumping from the bottom panel. Most of his work was backed up either on the cloud or external hard drives, but _still_. It wasn’t as if computers were cheap. He pushed himself to his feet, gritting his teeth against the pain. His leg was stiff from sitting for so long.

“Where are you going?” Gabriel asked.

“Apparently, to buy a new computer,” Sam snapped.

  


  


Gabriel hadn't been entirely truthful when he said he couldn't leave. He could, he just couldn't go very far. When Sam stepped out to get a new computer, Gabriel stepped out of his visible form and took a stroll through the apartments. He couldn't leave the actual complex or even visit the other buildings, but the apartments in this building were fair game.

There was a couple who lived a floor below Sam's who had been married for two years. The guy was a chump, some hotshot lawyer who thought way too highly of himself and was luckier than he realized for snagging the pretty brunette. She really needed to ditch the loser, get a better job, blah blah blah, as if she didn't know all that already, thanks.

Gabriel sat on the foot of their bed, crossing his legs. Funny how their lives clicked into his mind like they were memories of his own. Madison Mulligan, married Nate Mulligan in a fit of grandmotherly 'when are you going to settle down with a nice man and pop out 2.5 children’ concern. Nate Mulligan, douche extraordinaire, had recently been promoted to partner and had taken it upon himself to take his new secretary upon himself to celebrate.

"So anyway, I told him if he wanted to do that, he would need to—" Nate was saying, loosening his tie while he strolled through the room and into the bathroom. Madison was scrolling through her phone, clearly only listening with half an ear.

Gabriel frowned and hopped off the edge of the bed. He thought he saw something—ah. The flash of lacy red was just barely visible under Nate's nightstand. Carefully, not wanting to catch Madison's attention and freak her out about the unimportant stuff, Gabriel lifted the lacy red thong with one finger. He frowned at it, then at the lampshade.

When he was done, he took a step back and admired his new masterpiece. Then he knocked over the alarm clock. It succumbed to an electronic death with a quiet fizzle. Whoops.

Madison jumped and twisted around, staring first at where the alarm clock had been, then up at the lampshade. Her eyebrows flew up in surprise, then dipped down in gratifying fury.

Gabriel had to admire his handiwork. The red lacy thong made an excellent adornment stretched over the beige lampshade, like an upside down, legless mannequin.

"Nate?" she called, voice deceptively even. "What's this?"

"Hm?" Nate poked his head out of their bathroom. When he saw what she was staring at, his eyes widened in horror. "Wh-what's that? Are they, um, new panties?" He laughed nervously, taking a step back into the bathroom. "Funny place to put them, Maddie."

"Hilarious," Madison said flatly, lips thinned. "Quit the crap, Nate. What the hell is this?”

"What—no, Madison, I have no idea where that came from—"

This was _way_ better than prime time TV.

"I can explain—"

Madison folded her arms over her chest and quirked one eyebrow. Oh yes, Gabriel _liked_ her. "Well? I'm listening."

Nate's mouth hung open as if he hadn't expected her to actually push the matter. He worked his jaw a couple of times. “Uh—”

Gabriel cocked his head to the side, then slipped out the door as Madison went from furious to nuclear. He wandered back up the stairs and into Sam's apartment, going visible again just as Sam stamped in, announcing his presence like a charging elephant. He had a large bag from Best Buy in one hand and was slightly damp from the rain, and was humming _Mamma Mia_. He stopped abruptly, then whirled around to point an accusing finger at Gabriel.

“How the hell can change all the music on my iPod to Abba but destroy my computer without even touching it?” Sam demanded.

“Got the magic touch,” Gabriel said, grinning, and wiggled his fingers at Sam.

“Just—stay out of my stuff!”

“Sure thing, Sambo,” Gabriel lied.

Below them, Madison's voice had reached new and alarming decibels, interrupting their own argument. 

Sam grimaced. “Poor slob.”

“Oh don't worry, he's only getting what he deserves,” Gabriel said, physically incapable of keeping the smug tone out of his voice.

“What did you do,” Sam sighed.

Gabriel widened his eyes. “Who, moi?”

Something crashed below them and Sam winced. “You know what, never mind. I really don't want to know. Here, I got something for you. Not that you deserve it,” He dug around in the large bag, then tossed something at Gabriel. Since he was unprepared, it shot right through his chest. “Whoops.”

“Very nice,” Gabriel huffed, but scampered after the bag anyway. Apparently, he was easy like that. “What is it?”

“Just open it, will you?” Sam asked, amused.

It took some concentration, but Gabriel finally managed to tear open the top of the bag. Inside were those little magnetic Scrabble letters. “Sam! You are seriously the best, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

“I thought it might be good practice at moving solid objects,” Sam explained, scratching the back of his head.

“Very practical,” Gabriel said seriously, then immediately crouched in front of the refrigerator to spell out P-E-N-I-S for 7 points. Sam shuffled over to add J-I-Z-Z-E-D to the I for 31 points. 

Gabriel stared up at him with wide eyed wonder. He might have fallen in love with Sam right then, just a little bit.

Sam straightened again, idly rubbing at his hip. “Seems like you're getting better at moving things.”

“It's because I'm awesome,” Gabriel said and tried to think of another vulgar word that had a Z in it.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam staggered out of his room and collapsed in the chair at his kitchen table, dropping his head into his arms with way too much drama for a guy in his thirties. Gabriel drifted toward him. The mop of his brown hair was sticking up all over the place, like he was some sort of overgrown kid. Gabriel wanted to shove his fingers in there and mess everything up further, but he didn’t think Sam would appreciate having a hand shoved into his head.

When Sam lifted his head, he yelled, “What the hell!” and grabbed the edge of the table to avoid spilling to the ground.

Gabriel looked down at where the table bisected his torso. “I was feeling a little torn up.”

Sam looked a lot like he wanted to punch Gabriel in the face, but since that would've been absolutely pointless (see: table jutting through Gabriel), he had to settle on giving Gabriel a truly epic bitchface. 

“You did that just for the pun, didn’t you?”

“Maybe.”

“It wasn’t even a good pun.”

“I’ll just split,” Gabriel said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

Sam groaned and dropped his head into his hands. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

Gabriel grinned and drifted up to sit on top of Sam’s table. Since Sam was actually Mr. Clean with way too much hair, this didn’t actually help with the bitchface. It wasn't as if Gabriel was corporal or leaving ectoplasm slime trails.

“Can't you do anything useful?” Sam griped.

“Ghost,” Gabriel said, jerking a thumb at his chest.

“You can pick things up, can’t you?” Sam peered up at Gabriel through his bangs. “Can’t you make breakfast or something?”

“Why would I do that?” Gabriel asked, puzzled.

“You're right, stupid question,” Sam grumbled, dropping his head back on the table. But Gabriel was ignoring him now. Could he cook? It might be an interesting experiment.

“I don't need to eat, though,” Gabriel said, mostly to himself.

“But you are bored.”

“That's for sure,” Gabriel sighed.

Sam lifted his head enough to glare at Gabriel, before his expression morphed into something like—decisiveness?—as he levered himself out of his chair.

"I have a PT appointment today," Sam said, shuffling into his kitchen.

Gabriel gave himself the luxury of pouting at Sam's back, since he couldn't see him. He'd been looking forward to spending the day annoying the sasquatch.

Sam crouched in front of one of the many drawers he'd dubbed "the everything drawer" that was filled with useful items, like duct tape and paper clips and, apparently, old cellphones.

"Hello, what's this?" Gabriel said, floating forward. 

Sam held the phone out to him, grinning. "A cellphone. Did you die before modern technology? And quit floating, it's creepy."

"Ha ha," Gabriel deadpanned, and drifted up an inch higher, so that his head was nearly level with Sam's. Cripes, if the guy wasn't tall. "I mean, what do you want to do with it?"

"Well, I figure that since you didn't blow up my iPod when you switched all my music—thanks for that, by the way—you should be able to handle an iPhone."

"Your logic is flawless," Gabriel said sarcastically, but gingerly took the phone. It didn't immediately explode, so that was good.

Sam beamed at him, reaching down to turn it on. "Since you can't go anywhere and all, you can always send me a text if you get bored."

Gabriel stared at Sam as he loomed over him to poke at the screen. For the life of him (or—afterlife), Gabriel could not figure out the way his brain worked. People just weren't that _nice_.

"Here," Sam said, excited. He pressed an icon at the top of the screen, opening a new message. "It's not on any plan, but you don't seem to have any trouble manipulating radio waves. Try texting me!" He punched in his phone number, then looked up at Gabriel expectantly. Gabriel, who had still been staring at Sam like he were some alien life form new to planet earth, dropped his gaze quickly back down to the phone. it, thankfully, did not go off like a grenade when he carefully punched out: **hi.**

Sam's phone buzzed a second later.

"Awesome," Sam said, fishing his phone out of his back pocket. He punched in Gabriel's name.

Gabriel input Sam's name as SAMSQUATCH THE JOLLY GREEN GIANT.

  


  


It wasn't long before Sam regretted giving the phone to Gabriel.

"Am I interrupting something?" Meg said, raising an eyebrow. Sam's phone continued to cheerfully vibrate from his coat slung over the back of his chair.

“I'm so sorry,” Sam said, through gritted teeth. “Apparently, I gave my number out to the wrong type of person.”

As if in response, his phone vibrated three more times in rapid succession.

“That's why I always give out a fake number,” Meg said, conspiratorial. The phone buzzed again as if on cue and she snorted an undignified laugh.

“Let me just turn the damn thing off,” Sam grunted and stood from the chair the doctor used to put him through horrendous exercises.

The first couple of texts were just a jumble of letters, followed by a proud, **I think Im getting the hang of ghis**. Sam started to type out a response, when a new text buzzed in. Gabriel had sent a picture of his kitchen with a flare of white in one corner and a floating cinnamon bottle in the other.

**does this cinnamon make me look fat**

Sam laughed, shaking his head, then shot a quick, **in pt. talk later. stop texting so much for the love of god** in response.

Of course that was followed by a slew of responses. Sam shook his head and turned off his phone. “Sorry. Really.”

“Uh huh,” Meg said. She was watching Sam with an interested quirk of an eyebrow. “You look good, Sam.”

Sam—didn’t know what to do with that. He liked Meg: she was cute, with a round face and a pointy chin. She was no nonsense and wickedly sarcastic, and maybe a little evil, but he wasn’t sure that was entirely professional.

Meg rolled her eyes so spectacularly that Sam decided to be offended. “Not like that, you gigantic dork.”

“I’m your patient,” Sam reminded her.

“I mean,” Meg continued, ignoring his completely valid point, “you look better. We’ve been working together for, what, going on six months now? And I’m pretty sure that’s the first time I’ve seen you drop the mopey teenage bitchface—”

Sam jerked a thumb at his own chest. “ _Patient_.”

“—and actually laugh. It’s a good look on you.”

“Thanks. I think.”

“You’re welcome,” Meg said, with way too much smug satisfaction.

Sam frowned at her. “You’re really bad at this whole complimenting thing.”

“Take what you can get. Now, let’s see you do twenty squats.”

Definitely evil.

Sam knew that the physical therapy was good for him—that it was a necessity if he ever wanted to feel halfway normal again, but it always hurt like a bitch after. Of course Dr. Masters used his pain to lecture about how he really should stop being such a wiener and just use his cane already, and really, Sam had no idea how she managed to stay in business.

He leaned against the wall in the elevator back to his apartment, scrolling through Gabriel's mess of texts and smiling in a way that edged dangerously close to fond.

**did you know the phone has internet**

**i found porn**

**there is a lot of porn on the internet**

**how was your pt**

**i might have also discovered amazon**

Sam's eyes widened at the last message, but then the elevator doors pinged open to, of all things, Castiel having what appeared to be a throwdown with some guy who was a full head shorter than him.

“I always thought better of you, Castiel. Why would you protect the one who turned his back on our family?” the small man demanded. He was clearly attempting to intimidate, his back straight and shoulders up. It was surprisingly effective, considering how short he was. He reminded Sam of a scorpion; small, but with a lethal potential.

Castiel didn’t look very impressed. “If it was not for him, we would have never been able to defeat Lucifer. Michael was losing. You know that.”

“He is a traitor!”

“ _You_ are the one who turned on us, Ezra.”

Maybe they were LARPers. He didn't actually know what LARPers did, just that it involved acting like someone else in a way that was not always sexual.

“Hey—” Sam started, but then Ezra hauled his arm back and punched Castiel on the _face_. Sam instinctively jolted towards the two, but Castiel was already shoving his arm out, slamming the palm of his hand so hard into Ezra’s chest he actually hurled the smaller man into the wall.

“Hey!” Sam shouted, limping towards the fighting men. 

Immediately, both men fell back into overly casual stances. There was blood pouring out of Castiel’s nose. He seemed oblivious to it.

“This isn’t the end of it,” Ezra sneered, then straightened his jacket and strode away.

“What the hell was that all about?” Sam demanded, hurrying to Castiel’s side. “Dude, you’re bleeding.”

“I am well,” Castiel said.

“Ri-ight, Sam said, slowly. The blood was dripping off his chin. Sam grabbed him by the arm. “Come on, you’re bleeding everywhere. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“It is really unnecessary—” Castiel protested, but Sam dragged him into his own apartment. He thought he saw Gabriel out of the corner of his eye, but when he turned to ask him to grab some paper towels, he was nowhere to be seen. Useless ghost.

“Sit,” Sam ordered, pushing him to one of the chairs. Castiel sat.

“What was that about, anyway?” Sam asked, heading to to the refrigerator to grab one of his many ice packs.

Castiel wiped some of the blood from his face with his sleeve and Sam made a disapproving noise, grabbing the whole roll of paper towels before Castiel turned his trenchcoat into a handkerchief.

“That was—Ezra,” Castiel said, hesitantly. He unrolled half the roll and pressed the huge wad of paper towels to his nose. It made him look like a kid. “We do not see eye to eye about one of our brothers.”

“How so?” Sam asked, curiously.

Castiel blinked, one slow sweep of black eyelashes, and Sam thought maybe he didn't want to be talking about this with a complete stranger. “Sorry. It's not my business.”

“It’s alright, Sam,” Castiel said, but didn't offer any further information about his family drama. He was looking around the apartment with unguarded interest. Sam followed his gaze, confused. He'd seen the other apartments during a walkthrough before he'd moved in and they weren't much different than this one.

“Do you have a roommate?” 

“I, uh,” Sam scratched the back of his head. It was a weird question, and actually he had no idea how to answer that. Gabriel was sort of a roommate, but also completely unlike one. That was way too much to explain, so Sam just shrugged and said, “Yeah.”

“I have not yet seen him.”

Right. Sam winced slightly. “He works night shift,” Sam lied, feeling guilty.

Castiel pulled the paper towels away from his nose, peering down at the blood curiously. There was a smear of red over his upper lip, but the bleeding had stopped.

“Did you want a glass of water?” Sam asked, feeling awkward. He wasn't exactly sure if he was failing at basic social interaction, or if Castiel was.

“No,” Castiel said, balling up the wad of paper towels. He got up to throw them away, then turned to Sam. “I should go now. Thank you.”

“Sure man, no prob.” Sam got up as well, walking with Castiel to the door. “Look, if he bothers you again, let me know.”

Castiel stared at Sam for several seconds—and jeez did this guy stare a lot—before he nodded, once. “Thank you. You are kind. I will—see you around, Sam.”

He said the casual goodbye like it was the first time he had said anything casual, ever, before nodding again and slipping out the door. Well, it wasn't like he hadn't already known Castiel was a gigantic weirdo. Nice guy, but weird.

Two days later, there was a giant, animatronic moose head hanging over the kitchen table.

“Look!” Gabriel chirped, reaching up to press a button on the mount.

The moose burst into song, head swinging back and forth enthusiastically and lips moving along to _Jingle Bell Rock._ Sam, who had just wanted a cup of coffee, God, took a horrified step back. 

“Isn't it great?” Gabriel asked, delighted.

Sam looked at him, then back at the moose, then said, “I'm going back to bed.”

  


  


Sam ran.

The streets were dark and slick, streaked a blurry red and white from the streetlights. Panic was pumping through his veins like the worst kind of drug. He knew this routine. He’d lived it a thousand times over the last six months. Knowing what was going to happen didn’t make it easier. He couldn’t stop the inevitable. Jones St. was just a block away and he’d turn left, because he always turned left.

His boots pounded on the pavement, but he wasn't fast enough, he had to _move faster_ —

A warm curl of fingers wrapped around Sam's wrist. All of a sudden, he was being rushed through an ally cluttered with dumpsters and dirty rain puddles that evolved into an open hallway. There were huge arched doorways to the right and staggeringly tall Roman pillars to the left. Past the pillars, a huge green pool took up most of the courtyard. Steam billowed from the murky surface, crowded with people chatting in accented English.

Sam's brain momentarily went offline, unable to smoothly transition from sheer terror to _utter humiliation_. Because—and a quick, horrified glance down confirmed it—Sam was completely naked.

“G-Gabriel,” Sam stammered, trying to cover himself as he was hauled onward by a determined ghost, who was also apparently naked, oh God. 

“When you said you were going back to sleep I hadn't realized it was so that you could torture yourself, or else I would have kept you up,” Gabriel explained. “Your psychic distress was so loud I couldn’t hear the TV.”

Sam resolutely kept his eyes on fixed on the sweep of Gabriel’s shoulder blades and absolutely did not glance down his spine, to the dimples that dipped just above the strong swell of Gabriel’s—

“So you decided to, what, recreate it?” Sam asked quickly, aiming for sarcastic but missing his mark.

That made Gabriel pause mid-stride. “Now there's an idea. ‘Aquae Erotica.’ This would be the perfect setup for a giant orgy.”

“Don't you dare.”

Gabriel laughed and yanked Sam to the nearest, semi-private pool. He shoved him at it without warning. Sam flailed, regained his balance with a shocked glare, and was pushed in anyway for his efforts.

The water was hot, but pleasantly so. The pool was deep enough that when Sam popped back to the surface, the water lapped near his collarbone. He flung his soaked bangs out of his eyes with a jerk of his head. 

“Dude!” 

Gabriel grinned down at him, arms akimbo and—Sam dropped his eyes down to Gabriel’s ankles. “The waters here have healing properties. It’ll be good for your hip.”

“Where is ‘here’?” Sam said.

“Aquae Sulis.”

Sam frowned at Gabriel’s ankles. “We’re in Bath?”

“Correct-o-mundo. You’re a sharp one, kid. I knew there was a reason why I liked you,” Gabriel said, finally slipping into the pool. Sam let out a grateful breath through his nose. It was getting hard keeping his gaze locked on Gabriel's ankles. “Eighteenth century, to be exact.”

Sam sank deeper into the water, leaning against the far wall. “I thought dreams were supposed to be based on memories.”

“They are. This one’s mine, I think.”

Sam shook his head, then tilted it back and closed his eyes. What the hell. Might as well enjoy it. Gabriel had probably traveled a lot when he was alive and was just filling in the blanks with his vivid imagination. Whatever it was, this was way better than being shot again.

“You’re supposed to visit the baths in a specific order to experience the whole shebang,” Gabriel explained, and Sam could hear him splashing around in the water, ever in motion. “ _Frigidarium, tepidarium, caldarium._ ”

“Cold, warm, hot,” Sam said, drowsily. It should have been weird, feeling this tired when he was already asleep, but the heat was soaking through his skin and into his bones. He hadn’t felt this relaxed in years.

“Yes,” Gabriel said, and maybe he was imagining it, but Sam could have sworn there was a soft note to his tone.

Sam blinked his eyes open. Gabriel was much closer than Sam had realized, leaning on the wall to Sam’s left.

“This is better, though,” Gabriel decided, ignoring the way Sam had tensed up. He settled against the wall of the pool, closing his eyes. His hair was wet and slicked back, and his sharp features were loose and relaxed.

Gabriel was confusing. He was mouthy, and rude, and sarcastic as hell, and he pinged all over the right places on Sam's radar. There was just something about Gabriel that made Sam want to wade over to him and sink his fingers into that soft wet hair. And anyway he was _dead,_ so Sam needed to stop that thought in its tracks.

“You know, if you're having performance anxiety because of the audience, we can take care of that,” Gabriel said, slyly.

To demand to know if Gabriel was reading his mind would be to admit way too much if he wasn't, so Sam just glared and said, flatly, “What are you talking about.”

Gabriel snapped his fingers and everyone disappeared. He stared at his fingers with cautious delight. “There! See? I told you.”

“You did not actually mean to do that,” Sam snorted.

“I so totally did.”

“Right,” Sam drawled.

Gabriel splashed the flats of his hands in the water petulantly. “Well, now you're talking me out of wanting to have sex with you.”

“You're dead,” Sam said, rolling his eyes and absolutely refusing to blush. “Incorporeal. How could we possibly have sex if we can't even touch?”

There was a warm, slick slide of very real fingers across his forearm. Gabriel looked up at him, eyes half-lidded. “Who says we can't touch here?”

Sam’s eyes snapped open to his dark bedroom. His room was cold, but his entire body was loose and warm, almost overheated.

His arm tingled from a lingered electric touch.


	4. Chapter 4

“Sammy!” Dean said brightly, two days after Sam’s mental vacation to Bath. He made a face when Sam grabbed him into a bear hug, but didn’t pull away, instead reaching up to roughly mess up Sam’s hair. “When are you going to cut your hair? You look like a hippy.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but he was grinning big enough to crack his face. With everything that had been going on these past couple of weeks, he’d nearly forgotten that Dean was visiting from Kansas. He was glad to see his brother, not least because Gabriel had gone AWOL after the dream and it was making Sam cranky.

“Where's this ghost of yours? Is he still bugging you?” Dean asked, pushing past Sam into his apartment. “Need me to exorcise a bitch?” 

“No, dude, we're cool.” 

Dean sighed exaggeratedly, putting his whole body into it. “I know I always tell you you gotta get out there and make friends, but I always meant living friends, dummy.”

“Shut up.” Sam rolled his eyes, but his grin was back.

“I’m gonna hit the shower,” Dean said, taking a whiff of his armpit and screwing up his face at the results, “then someone owes me burger, if I recall correctly.”

“Yeah, yeah. Bathroom’s down the hall to the right,” Sam said, waving Dean off. Dean tossed him a casual salute and disappeared down the hall.

Sam shuffled to the kitchen to finish up washing the dishes. Things hadn't always been good between him and Dean. Sam grew up idolizing his brother only the way a younger sibling could, and then resenting him the way only a younger sibling could. He'd accused Dean of being lazy; knew he was smart but couldn't figure out why he didn't try harder to get into college. He’d taken it about as well as expected when he found out Dean couldn't go to college because he was too busy trying to fund _Sam’s_ higher education.

They didn't talk for two years. Sam went to college, then to the police academy. Dean had gotten a proper job at Bobby’s. Time went on.

And then all the unimaginably bad shit Sam did not like thinking about happened and petty grudges seemed pointless. And then Sam got shot and Dean took that about as well as to be expected.

Sam was just putting away his last coffee mug front the dish rack when there was a shout from the bathroom. It sounded more furious than scared, so Sam put the mug on the top shelf, closed the cabinet door, then turned around to lean against the kitchen counter.

A second later, Dean came storming back into the kitchen in jeans and a t-shirt, red faced and still damp from the shower. “Sam!”

“What did he do,” Sam sighed.

“He—that—” Dean spluttered.

“Spit it out.”

Dean’s scowl was stuff for the records. He held up a lacy pink thong and hissed, “He replaced all my underwear with _these_.”

Sam laughed.

“Dude!” Dean protested, slingshotting it at Sam’s head. That just made Sam clutch the edge of the counter and laugh harder. “Where is that damn ghost of yours? I am going to exorcise him straight to hell!”

“Relax, relax,” Sam soothed, through chuckles. “You can always buy more.”

“That is not the point,” Dean snapped, though he didn’t look as angry as he normally might have. Actually, he looked pleased, which was actually really weird, all things considered.

“What do you look so happy about? Don’t tell me you actually like the lacy underwear.”

That earned him a truly ferocious look. “No, asshole. It’s just good to see you laugh again. Even if it’s at me.”

Dean was the second person to say that to Sam in the span of a week and Sam knew what the implications were. They weren't entirely wrong. Gabriel was a good distraction. It was hard to dwell on your issues with a ghost throwing spice bottles at your head before you could work yourself up to a proper funk.

“Come on,” Sam said, in lieu of answering. “I want a strawberry shake.”

  


  


“So, do you want In n Out or,” Sam was saying when they left his apartment, but Dean was distracted by Sam's neighbor fumbling with his keys at the lock.

Dean had always taken an ‘any port in the storm’ approach to his sexuality. He didn't exactly fly a rainbow flag off the Impala—honestly, it wasn't anyone's damn business who he slept with—but that didn't mean his head hadn't been turned by a pair of nicely toned shoulders or the strong cut of a jawline. Given a choice, he'd choose tits over dick 99% of the time, but Dean had a feeling he’d just stumbled across the 1%.

It wasn't as if the guy was supermodel hot. He was shorter than Dean, with black hair that stuck out all over the place and a tie that looked as if it had been done up in the dark. But Dean felt a frisson of awe when he stared into unnatural blue eyes, and the man looked back at him sort of like he'd been hit by a truck.

“Hey, Castiel,” Sam said, brightly. “This is my brother, Dean. Dean, this is my neighbor, Castiel.”

“Hi—uh, hey,” Dean said, which earned him an odd look from Sam. Dean ignored him.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel said, tone low and deep and _woah_ , Dean liked how his name sounded in that voice.

“Uh huh,” Sam said, way too knowingly. “Hey, we were just about to grab a bite—”

“You should come,” Dean interrupted, aware that he was showing all his cards but unable to do a damn thing to stop himself.

“Thank you,” Castiel said, lips tilting up in the smallest little smile. “I regret I must decline. I have a prior appointment.”

“Next time,” Dean said, though it came out sort of questioning.

Castiel nodded, still smiling. He hadn't looked away from Dean yet, and Dean was completely captivated by how blue Castiel's eyes were.

“Okay!” Sam said, brightly. Dean jerked a little, then glared at his brother. He could hear the laughter in his voice. “We'll see you later then, Castiel.”

“Goodbye, Sam. Dean,” Castiel said, then slipped into his apartment.

“Shut up,” Dean said. Sam laughed anyway, then fended off being smacked with a few well-aimed swats himself, with the additional over-exaggerated kissy-faces. 

It was good they were mature adults in their thirties.

“I think he’s single,” Sam said, conversationally. Dean ignored him.

“Weird, but nice. Really weird,” Sam continued, as they stepped into the elevator. Dean continued to ignore him.

“Douchey brother, though. Punched him in the face the other day.”

That got Dean’s attention. He peered at Sam out of the corner of his eye. “Why?”

“He didn’t want to talk about it,” Sam said, with a shrug. “It sounded like they were fighting about a different one of their brothers and then he just popped Castiel in the nose. It was bizarre.”

“Huh,” Dean said. That was weird. Not really any of their business, but Dean still frowned at the elevator doors as if Castiel’s apartment was on the other side. 

“Maybe you should check on him,” Sam said, slyly. Dean swatted at him.

They had In n Out because, and Dean would never admit this to his friends back in Kansas, In n Out was probably the best fast food burger joint in the nation, before heading to a nearby bar to grab a drink. It wasn’t the kind of bar either of them liked going to, crowded, and filled with wealthy yuppies who made Dean feel vaguely self conscious about his old jeans and even older leather jacket. It was nice catching up with Sam, especially now that he looked like _Sam_ again, not like the furious, hurt version of his brother who had been unable to pull himself out of his ongoing slump.

Dean caught him up on life with Bobby Singer and even got Sam booming with laughter about the goose and Bobby’s old rottweiler, Rumsfeld. He could almost be thankful to this ghost of Sam’s, even though he was going to have to exorcise him.

  


  


Mornings after drinking with Dean were always filled with regret. Really, Sam only had himself to blame. The man drank beer like it was water: fast, and in great quantities. 

He paused by the couch, peering over the back. Gabriel was sprawled over the cushions like a lazy cat, thumbing through one of Sam’s old law books like it was an airport novel.

“Hey. Where have you been?” Sam asked, quietly. He thought about following that up with asking him just what he’d been playing at the last time they’d met, but couldn’t form the words. It was too peaceful in the apartment, with the soft morning sunlight lighting the room.

Gabriel flicked a glance up at him. It was fascinating the way the light still managed to warm his eyes to a liquid honey, despite him being incorporeal. He closed the book and set it on the table, murmuring back, “I didn’t think my presence would be appreciated in your little brotherly reunion.”

“It would have been.”

Gabriel pushed himself up to lean against the back of the couch, resting his chin on his arms. “Yeah? Your brother like my little gift then?”

“Okay, so maybe appreciated isn't the right word.” Sam shook his head. “Way to make a good first impression.”

“Your brother is exactly the kind of guy who you just have to poke. Like a sleeping bear.” 

“You would think it was fun poking a sleeping bear,” Sam said, shuffling into the kitchen. He peered into the refrigerator in a desultory fashion. There was a half-eaten carton of chow mein, a carton of milk three days past its expiration date, and a packet of shredded cheese. Sam closed the refrigerator. Dean would probably need an extra hour before he rejoined the land of the living.

“I'm gonna run to the store,” Sam said. “Don't do anything to Dean.”

“I wouldn't dream of it,” Gabriel said, as innocent as a puppy with a chewed up shoe.

“Uh huh.”

Sam would be lucky if he still had an apartment when he got back from the store.

He may have went a little overboard at Safeway, but he figured he and Dean couldn't eat out every night. Neither of them were much good at cooking, but one of them should be able to manage spaghetti.

He was just making his way across the parking lot when there was a sudden movement just in his periphery. Sam tensed, just in time to be grabbed by the lapels of his coat and slammed against an old Corolla. The bag of groceries tumbled to the ground and Sam winced. There went the eggs. He swiftly brought his own arm up, pressing it against the neck of his assailant.

Ezra scowled up at him.

“What the hell!” Sam shouted, trying to shove him away. It was like trying to shove a boulder. That was—unexpected. Ezra looked exactly like the kind of man Sam could pick up and toss to the side.

“Where is he?” Ezra demanded.

“Castiel?” Sam shot back. “Why, so you can beat him up more?” 

Ezra drew him away from the car, only to slam him into it again, so hard that all the breath was knocked out of him.

“Gabriel,” Ezra snarled.

Sam’s eyes widened, but apparently he didn’t answer fast enough (for all of the second he was given), because Ezra hauled back his tiny fist. 

It felt a lot like being punched by a sledgehammer.

Despite working homicide, Sam had only been in a handful of situations where he actually thought he was going to die. Once, an investigation over a series of arsons was handed over to homicide. A body had been discovered in the basement of one of the homes that had been set on fire. Sam had been on the second floor of the house they believed belonged to the murderer when the arsonist hit.

The second time resulted in him being shot in the hip and living in CT scanners and X-ray machines for half a year.

When Sam looked into Ezra’s eyes as he swung back for another blow, he thought: this half pint is going to kill me.

There was a soft click of a gun being unlocked. “You have two seconds to let him go before I shoot your fucking head off,” Dean said, pointing their dad’s goddamn .45 to the side of Ezra’s head. Sam had never heard him sound like that before, so very calm but with a thread of murder in his voice.

Ezra’s grip tightened in Sam’s coat, before he smirked. He slowly released him, taking a step back. Sam slumped against the car, grabbing onto one of the sideview mirrors to hold himself up.

“Call the police,” Dean ordered and Sam dutifully fished the phone from his pocket.

“I wouldn’t bother,” Ezra said, smiling. 

“Don’t you fucking move,” Dean shouted, but Ezra was already walking away, unconcerned. For one terrible moment, Sam was absolutely certain Dean was about to shoot him. 

“Dean,” Sam said. 

Dean jerked a little at Sam’s voice and lowered the gun. “You alright, Sammy?”

“I’m fine,” Sam said, rubbing his cheek with a wince. Actually, his face hurt like hell, but these days Dean was less likely to tell him to ‘suck it up’ and more likely to—shoot someone, apparently. It made Sam feel like he was in high school again, being bullied by Dirk, and Dean going way overboard with his protective older brother schtick.

“What the hell were you doing out here, anyway?”

“I was getting something out of the Impala.” He furiously locked his gun and tucked it into his back pocket. The quiet murder in his eyes was quickly morphing into hot rage now that the threat was gone. “I can’t believe you let yourself get beat up by a hobbit.” 

“Shut up,” Sam said, rubbing the side of his face where Ezra had hit him. It felt hot, from both embarrassment and from his new bruise.

“Seriously, he’s like the size of an Oompa Loompa. How the hell did he get a jump on you?”

“He was really strong, Dean,” Sam insisted. “I mean, unnaturally strong.

“What did he want?”

“Gabriel,” Sam said, stunned.

Dean stared blankly at Sam for a second, then whirled around back to the elevator, saying, “I think it’s time me and your ghost have a little chat.”

“Shit,” Sam said, hobbling quickly after Dean. This was not going to end well, he just knew it.

  


  


“Gabriel! Get your incorporeal ass here right now!”

“Dean,” Sam was protesting as Gabriel popped onto the kitchen counter, legs crossed at the ankles, right in front of this Dean fellow. Dean stumbled back several satisfying steps.

“Holy shit!” Dean yelped.

“You were the one who called me,” Gabriel accused, grabbing the small bottle of cinnamon Sam hadn't put away yet. “Sam! This must be your charming brother. Did you like your wardrobe upgrade?”

Some of Dean’s fury faded and he looked momentarily amused despite himself, before he resumed the angry eyebrows in Gabriel’s general direction and said, “I am going to exorcise you so hard.”

“Is that a promise, big guy?” Gabriel asked, winking.

“Guys,” Sam sighed, easing himself into one of the kitchen chairs with a grimace. Gabriel looked at him, then jumped off the counter to stalk over, cinnamon bottle rolling forgotten through his hand.

“What happened to you?” Gabriel gritted out, slowly.

“That's what we want to know,” Dean said.

Gabriel would have been impressed at how quickly Dean bounced back from ghostly apparitions if he wasn't so busy uselessly hovering a hand over huge red bruise that was slowly darkening the side of Sam's face. “Who did this to you?” Gabriel snarled.

Sam sighed, catching the ice pack Dean tossed to him.

“Someone named Ezra,” Sam said, pressing the ice pack to his cheek with a wince.

“Ezra?” Gabriel repeated, blankly. The name was—familiar, like someone Gabriel had met years ago, but couldn't put a face to the name. 

“He was looking for you,” Dean said, almost accusingly, and felt something lurch in his stomach.

“Are you sure?” he demanded, barely daring to hope. “This Ezra fella—he _knew_ me?”

“I don’t think that’s a good thing,” Dean said, angrily gesturing at Sam’s face. “What the hell kind of company did you keep?”

Gabriel folded his arms over his chest, absolutely refusing to take the blame for this, even if he did get an odd little twinge in his chest when he caught a glimpse of the darkening bruise on his face. 

“Dean!” Sam said, drawing a little closer to Gabriel. “It wasn’t his fault.”

“All I’m saying is that you weren’t getting punched in the face before your ghost pal popped up.”

“No,” Sam said, tightly, “I was getting shot in the hip.”

Things got a little awkward after that: Dean looked like Sam had just slapped him right in the mouth, but Gabriel couldn’t exactly feel smug about that, because Dean sort of had a point.

“Castiel,” Sam said.

“What about him?” Dean demanded, which was—interesting. Gabriel slanted a look at him. 

“No, I mean—Castiel was fighting with Ezra, wasn't he? Maybe he knows something about Gabriel's past.” Sam turned back to Gabriel, concern writ all over his face because he was actually a huge a puppy. “Does the name Castiel ring a bell?”

Gabriel rubbed his chin. It did, slightly more than Ezra’s. He thought about pushing someone off a cliff and shouting ‘FLY,’ but—that didn’t seem right. “Vaguely?”

Sam’s dopey face lit up with a huge grin. It was a good look on him. Much better than his standard bitchface and _almost_ as good as the small, relaxed smile he’d had at Aquae Sulis. “Alright, we’re getting somewhere.”

“How do we know it’s the same Castiel and Ezra?” Dean asked, pessimistically.

“Really,” Sam asked, flatly. “Because there are so many Castiels and Ezras running around?”

“Maybe he was just really religious,” Dean said. When Sam looked at him, surprised, he glared. “What? They sound like something from the bible.”

“So the scarecrow does have a brain,” Gabriel said, smirking.

“Gabriel,” Sam chastised.

“Don’t push me, ghost. I know where the salt is.”

“Dean!” Sam pressing his free hand over his eyes. Gabriel folded his arms. Whatever. Dean started it. “Look, Dean and I will speak with Castiel. Maybe he’ll be able to help you.”

Gabriel had no idea what Sam thought he needed help with. It wasn’t as if having his memories would help him be not dead. But apparently, Gabriel went full dumbass when it came to Sam Winchester, because he just shrugged and said, “Okay.”

Except Castiel wasn’t home when they tried knocking on the door, and he didn’t show for the rest of the evening. Gabriel decided to do a walkabout, feeling a like an intruder in his own apartment. Sam made a point to try and include Gabriel, but Dean-o was about as welcoming as a sleeping dog who had been poked one too many times.

Gabriel had made a point to avoid the apartment next to Sam’s. There was something about Sam’s neighbor that made Gabriel want to run and hide. He slipped into the apartment down the hall.

It was empty. There were baby toys scattered across the floor and dirty plates piled in the sink. They were new parents who hadn’t yet figured out how to manage a colicky baby while also battling nasty winter colds themselves. Gabriel did their dishes.

He passed by Castiel’s apartment again, slipping into the apartment to the right of Sam’s.

The girl next door wrote copious amount of porn about the two brothers on her favorite TV show. Despite her interesting tastes, she seemed like a nice enough girl. Gabriel left her to her Netflix marathon.

He stood in front of Castiel’s door, shifting from foot to foot. His gaze shifted back to Sam’s apartment. It would be so easy to slip back inside and sprawl out on Sam’s bed, maybe tease him a bit more. He scowled at the door. This was ridiculous. Gabriel squared his shoulders and slipped through the wall.

Castiel’s apartment had a similar layout as Sam’s, but it was considerably less decorated. The man didn’t even have a couch. Gabriel popped onto the top of Castiel’s kitchen table, crossing his legs and settling back on his hands.

He wasn’t quite sure how long he waited. The sun had set a long time ago and outside, the streets were quiet. The clock on the microwave had ticked over to the morning hours when Castiel abruptly popped into the middle of the apartment. 

He was—incredible. 

He was all light and sparks and undulating power, crammed down into one little meat suit with scruffy black hair and hopeful blue eyes. And his _wings_ —huge and barely contained, trembled with the need to spread wide and take to the sky.

“Gabriel,” Castiel murmured, turning towards the kitchen table.

Gabriel's eyes stung. It almost physically hurt to look at Castiel. His breath caught in his throat and he slipped through wall, back into Sam’s apartment.

Gabriel closed his eyes, pressing his forehead into the palms of his hands. The family room was empty: Dean and Sam had taken themselves off to bed a long time ago, but it would be another hour before they got up again.

Castiel.

Castiel had been so bright it was as if his image had burned into Gabriel's eyelids. He felt familiar. _Right_. Like that should be _Gabriel_. He phased through the door to the balcony, looking over the edge. If he was like Castiel, did he have wings? Could he fly?

Well, he was already dead. No harm in trying.

He hopped up onto the balcony and stretched his arms out, closing his eyes. It was windy; the thin trees around the complex rustling and bending from the force and passing through Gabriel to buffet against the side of the building. He didn’t even feel a chill. 

Gabriel let himself fall.

For a moment—one exhilarating moment—Gabriel _remembered_.

And then his body phased on its own and he landed with a surprised _thump!_ in the middle of a neat family room. Soft music played from a small iPod player on an end table next to a worn leather couch.

“What else do we need from the store?” a redhead was asking a brunette, who was at the sink in the kitchen. She was writing a list in a small notebook with one hand, another hand wrapped around a steaming mug.

The girl in the kitchen hummed, peering into the refrigerator. “Milk,” she said. “And ice cream.”

The redhead dutifully wrote them down, then laughed. “You don’t _need_ ice cream.”

“Says you,” the other girl said.

Gabriel watched, face an impassive mask, as the brunette closed the refrigerator and strolled to the table to drop a kiss on the top of her girlfriend’s head. The redhead’s face lit up and she tilted her head back, expression so full of love and devotion she was practically glowing from it.

Gabriel blew up their TV.


	5. Chapter 5

“Hey,” Dean said, rubbing one eye as he stumbled into the kitchen. He’d borrowed a pair of Sam’s sweats for the night while he did his laundry, and since Sam was the Jolly Green Giant he kept fucking stepping on the bottoms and nearly smashing his head open. “Where’s Casper?”

“Don’t call him that,” Sam said, hitting a few buttons on his coffee maker. 

“Protecting your girlfriend?” Dean grumbled, but without any bite to it. He slumped onto the kitchen table and dropped his head into his arms. Usually he could sleep anywhere, but every time he closed his eyes he pictured, with perfect clarity, what would have happened if he had pulled the trigger. It was not a pretty sight. Dean would have done it, though, if Ezra had seriously hurt Sam, and had almost done it, anyway.

“Shut up,” Sam huffed. He set a mug of coffee down in front of Dean. Dean wrapped both his hands around the mug without lifting his head, and then the light above the kitchen table exploded. 

Dean jerked in surprise, coffee sloshing over the top of his mug. He looked up at the jagged remains of the light, then at Sam, who was staring up at his ceiling, wide eyed.

The apartment went completely silent. 

“Sam?” Dean asked, cautiously.

The walls began to tremble and Dean thought, _fucking California earthquakes_ before the TV flickered on, rapidly switching to channels where people were being viciously murdered. A woman screamed. A man was shot. The walls went from trembling to the entire apartment convulsing and one of the windows in the kitchen exploded inward, spraying glass all over the linoleum.

“Gabriel!” Sam cried, grabbing the table with both hands as it rocked nervously back and forth. “Stop!”

That was fucking it. “We’re getting out of here,” Dean shouted, grabbing Sam by the shoulder and hauling him to his feet, swinging one of Sam’s arms over his shoulder. Sam would never admit to needing the help, but the still invisible Gabriel just had heaved out Sam’s entire set of steak knives and they had to _move_.

The hallway outside of Sam’s apartment was shockingly still. Behind them, it sounded a lot like Gabriel had exploded something. They flinched. Sam slumped against the door to his apartment, face a painfully familiar of mix of betrayal and concern. It used to be that look was reserved for John and Dean (and, for one moment in Sam’s life, Jess).

“What the hell pissed him off so bad?” Dean asked, leaning beside his brother. The door rattled ominously.

“I don't know,” Sam said, looking exactly like someone had just kicked his favorite puppy, and that puppy’s name was Gabriel.

“Think he'll calm down soon?”

Something crashed against the door and they both winced.

“No,” Sam said.

That was how Castiel found them twenty minutes later: huddled against the door to Sam's apartment, trying not to freeze while they waited for the hurricane behind them to die down. He stopped in front of them, head tilted to the side like a curious bird.

“You wouldn't believe us if we told you,” Sam sighed.

“We're just dealing with a ghost with PMS!” Dean twisted around mid-sentence to shout at the door. The door rattled violently in response.

Castiel's eyes widened. “I see. Won't you come to my place while you wait?” 

Dean snorted. Just how unflappable was this guy? He would probably just stare serenely if someone told him the apocalypse was happening next Tuesday. “Yeah, that’d be great.”

Sam cast a longing look at his door, but Dean hauled him up with him as he pushed himself to his feet. 

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean said.

Castiel looked startled, as if no one had called him that before, which, really. Dude’s name was a mouthful. 

“We wanted to talk to you anyway,” Sam said as Castiel led them into his apartment.

“I would be happy to speak with you, Sam,” Castiel said, strolling into the kitchen to grab a couple of glasses from the drying rack. 

They sat at Castiel’s kitchen table. Dean felt oddly vulnerable in his too-long pajama pants and bare feet. At least he had thrown on a shirt before leaving his room. He raked his fingers through his hair, self-consciously trying to flatten it.

“How do you know Gabriel?” Sam asked without preamble, because for all that he was known as the polite one, he had all the tact of a brick to the face.

To his credit, Castiel didn’t immediately throw the water at Sam. Instead, he gracefully took the seat across from Dean, sliding the cups forward.

“He is my brother,” Castiel said.

There was silence as they worked their way through that sentence, starting with the present tense and ending with the fact that Sam’s neighbor was apparently related to Sam’s ghost.

“He left our family a long time ago, but was stabbed when he tried to help restore order,” Castiel said, dropping his eyes to the table. 

Dean rubbed his hands over his face. Sam looked like he had been successfully processing what Castiel was saying, but then his brain rebooted midway through.

“What,” Dean said.

“It is a long story,” Castiel said, uncertainly.

“How was he killed?” Sam asked.

“He was stabbed while helping our brother,” Castiel said, the corners of his mouth twisting down in a small frown.

Sam flinched, but seriously, the dude was dead. He had to die somehow. Dean had to admit that was pretty lousy that he had to die like that, though. 

“I’m so sorry,” Sam said, though he sounded like he felt weird saying it. Which, to be fair, he was living with the guy who had been killed, so it must be strange offering your condolences when the dead person was haunting you.

“I am as well,” Castiel said, staring down at his hands. “It should have never ended this way.”

“Can you tell me more about him? Gabriel, I mean,” Sam said, and he sounded so fucking hopeful that a small ball of dread wound itself up in Dean’s stomach. Dean knew that tone of voice. Sam only sounded like that when he fell for the wrong type of girl. Dean could not even begin to comprehend how fucked up it would be if Sam fell for a _dead guy_.

“Sammy,” Dean hissed, warningly. Sam ignored him, but Dean saw the way his jaw clenched.

“I was not very close with him,” Castiel admitted after a moment. He sounded like he was picking his words carefully, like he didn’t want to lie but wasn’t about to tell the whole truth. “He was much older than me, and we are a large family. Although Gabriel assisted in raising me, I did not know him very well as an adult. But he was the one who taught me how to fl—walk.

“He left when I was still young. My family—strongly disapproved of him leaving. They saw it as him abandoning us. He was reviled for being selfish and cowardly. But he came back,” Castiel said, fiercely, protectively. “Without him, we would have—” He cut himself off in some confusion.

“Would have what?” Sam asked. He looked stunned.

Castiel was telling his story in fits and starts, like a trauma victim. “Hey, hey,” Dean said, soothingly. “Don’t listen to this big idiot over here. You don’t need to tell us right now if you can’t.”

Sam shot a look at Dean, but Castiel’s shoulders slumped. “Please forgive his anger. Gabriel experienced the worst type of betrayal before his death. I imagine a pain like that lingers.”

Well, now Dean felt like a dick.

Sam had to physically bite his lower lip to prevent the next question Dean knew he was dying to ask from slipping out. He glanced at Dean again, then slumped down in his chair, dropping his head in his hands. “Shit,” he muttered.

“And now he’s haunting Sam,” Dean said.

Castiel looked up at Sam, and there was something unfathomable about his blue eyes. “Yes,” he said, sadly. “I am not sure how, though.”

“Believe me, we had no idea ghosts existed either,” Dean said, aiming for comforting and missing his mark, if Sam’s expression was anything to go by. Castiel didn’t look offended, though, so Dean wasn’t too concerned. Actually, Castiel didn’t look much of anything, really, besides seriously serious.

“Why isn’t he haunting you, though? Why me?” Sam asked, rolling his glass between big hands.

“I do not believe Gabriel is constrained to one place. It is my understanding that he can move within the entire complex. He only chooses to show himself to you, Sam,” Castiel said, and although his expression didn’t change, Dean could detect something melancholy in his voice.

Apparently, Sam could too, because he said a little awkwardly, “He has amnesia.”

Castiel lifted an eyebrow as if it was a facial tick he’d just learned and was awkwardly trying it out. 

“He remembers his name, but not a lot else,” Sam continued.

“He has been known to play practical jokes,” Castiel said, hesitantly.

“Yeah,” Sam said, with a tiny roll of his eyes. “I know. He changed all my music to Abba. But I don’t think he’s joking about this.”

“I see,” Castiel said. He was sitting perfectly still, perched at the edge of his seat. “That would explain some things.”

“What do you mean?” Dean asked.

But Castiel just dropped his eyes again, looking down at the table as if it had murdered his brother. “Thank you for providing me with information about him. If it’s not too much trouble, may I visit some time?” 

“Of course. Anytime,” Dean said, even if though it wasn't his apartment.

“Perhaps when he is not upset.”

“Speaking of,” Sam said, pushing himself to his feet. “I'm going to check on him.”

“Don't you think he's probably still pitching his fit?” Dean asked.

“I want to talk to him,” Sam said, stubbornly.

Dean sighed and drained the rest of his water. “Thanks, Cas. We’ll let you know when your brother is—feeling up to company.”

Castiel looked up at Dean searchingly, then nodded.

“So weird,” Sam said, outside of Castiel’s apartment. “I mean, I like the guy and all, but he is one odd duck.”

Dean shrugged. “He's not so bad.”

Sam _looked_ at Dean, one hand on the door to his apartment. And okay, that was kind of a ringing endorsement, from him.

“Well, okay, he's pretty whacky,” Dean consented. “But he's no worse than your poltergeist over there.”

“Uh huh,” Sam said, dubiously, then coughed something that sounded like “hypocrite” into his fist.

“Shut up,” Dean grumbled. “Let's go make sure the Flying Dutchman didn't blow up your TV.”

“The Flying Dutchman is a ghost ship, not a ghost human.”

“Close enough.”

Gabriel hadn't blown up the TV, but he had hit Sam's apartment like a miniature cyclone. All his cabinets and appliances had been ripped open, cans of soup and bottles of spices were flung across the floor. Smoke roiled angrily from the mess that had once been his microwave, making the fire alarm shriek in distress. He'd left the table upright, but it was slammed up against the wall and all the chairs were toppled over.

“Shit,” Dean hissed.

Sam picked his way carefully into the kitchen, glass crunching under his boots. Dean, still barefoot, avoided the kitchen took the family room, whistling low under his breath. Sam’s huge nerdy bookshelf was lying on its side, books flopped open all over the carpet. The TV was untouched, but the coffee table had been completely flipped over, Dean’s coffee from that morning a large stain across Sam's carpet.

“We should have just exorcised him,” Dean grumbled, carefully picking his way around the broken glass to haul the coffee table back up.

“Are you trying to make him mad again?” Sam asked, lightly rubbing the purple bruise on his cheek. 

“Dude’s got one of those—what do you call it—’mercurial temperaments’.” 

“No kidding. I wonder what set him off?” Sam murmured, pushing the microwave into the sink. The apartment reeked of melted plastic, but the counters were thankfully unscathed.

Dean stepped onto the coffee table, unscrewing the fire alarm from the ceiling. He popped out the batteries, plunging the apartment into silence.

“I'm just saying, your girlfriend is a giant drama queen,” Dean said, setting the fire alarm on the table.

Sam threw a bottle of paprika at Dean’s head.

Dean caught it though and said, “You _would_ have paprika, you giant girl,” because he always had to have the last word.

  


  


Gabriel curled up in a squashy armchair Sam had pulled into his room when they were at  
war with each other. He felt weak and _tired_ which he thought might be weird, since he was dead and all. Probably he had used up all his mojo hurling things around the apartment.

Sam pushed open the door to his room sometime later (Gabriel didn’t know how long; time passed weirdly for him as a ghost). Gabriel didn’t bother making himself visible. 

Sam eased down on his bed. He looked tired and miserable. The bruise had darkened to a mottled purple color, and he was unconsciously rubbing his hip. And now Gabriel felt guilty on top of being depressed. That was just fucking great.

“Gabriel?” Sam said, hesitantly, and Gabriel’s head snapped up. But Sam was staring up at the ceiling, a small furrow between his eyebrows.

“I spoke to your brother.” Sam waited for a minute, but Gabriel said nothing. “He lives next door to me, you know? Castiel. Nice guy.”

Castiel was—his brother? Well, at least that explained why he seemed so familiar. Didn’t exactly explain the wings, though.

Sam rubbed lightly at the bruise on his cheek and Gabriel unfolded himself to drift over to Sam’s bed, sitting on the edge. “He told me about you. Said you taught him how to walk.” A small smile tugged at the corners of Sam’s mouth, fond in spite of himself.

He told the ceiling about Gabriel’s huge family, about how he left when things got hard but came back when things were the absolute hardest and how he had apparently sacrificed himself because he was a weird mix between selfish and completely selfless. He murmured sleepily that, while the rest of his family seemed like the dick collective, Castiel was good people.

Gabriel listened until Sam’s voice faded into sleepy mumbles. Then he crawled out of the chair and slunk out of Sam’s room.

  


  


The next morning, the apartment was spotless.


	6. Chapter 6

“Look, dude, all I'm saying is that falling for a ghost is a bad fucking idea,” Dean was saying, several days after Hurricane Gabriel blew through. Because Dean was a dick, he waited until Sam took a long swig of his beer.

Sam did not choke, but he did splutter out a protesting, “What? No. What are you talking about?”

He knew he was turning red, which was really just further ammo for Dean to use against him.

“I'm not stupid, Sammy,” Dean said, reaching for another slice of the cold pizza. They'd attempted the spaghetti, but gave up before the water started boiling because they were both lazy bastards and ordered a pizza, instead. “I see the way you talk about him.”

“How can you see how someone talks about someone? You hear talking,” Sam grumbled.

“Stop being dumb, detective. You know what I'm talking about. You go all gooey.”

“Oh my god, I do not go _gooey_ ,” Sam said, revolted.

“You do. You get all like…” Dean leaned forward, eyes widening and mouth going soft, doing a fair impression of a starstruck teenage girl. Sam gave him a Charley horse.

Dean laughed and rubbed his thigh. “I'm just calling it like I see it, man.” His expression sobered. “Look, you're my brother and I love you, but you seriously make the worst decisions when it comes to romance.”

Sam said nothing, just angrily drank his beer. It wasn't as if Dean didn't have a point. He didn't exactly have a great track record when it came to people he liked. But it wasn't like it mattered. Even if he did have—inappropriate feelings for Gabriel, the ghost had been MIA for days now.

“You're sulking!” Dean crowed.

Sam was not sulking.

Okay, he might have been sulking a bit. After Dean took himself off to bed, Sam stumbled to his own bed and flopped down onto his stomach, tucking his arms under his chin. Gabriel had blown into his life like a barely contained golden hurricane, dragging him up and out of the dull and depressing humdrum of recovery, and then had blown right back out again without a backwards glance. He _missed_ the stupid ghost. Without Gabriel around to throw spice bottles at his head and write crude messages with magnetic Scrabble letters, it was easy to fall back into the routine of pain and angst. His hip was throbbing like a bitter, constant reminder of how useless he was. 

There was a bottle of pills his doctor had prescribed to him tucked away in the back of his drawer. He’d avoided taking any so far, having seen what addiction had done to way too many people. Maybe he’d take a pill tonight. 

He ended up drifting into a fitful doze, even though he wasn’t tired. He wasn’t sure what woke him up, but one moment he was dreaming, once again, about being chased through the streets of San Francisco, and the next he was blinking at the top of Gabriel’s head. Without thinking, Sam reached up to touch his lightly tousled hair.

His hand went right through Gabriel’s head.

“Jesus,” Sam yelped, yanking his hand back. Gabriel’s head jerked up, eyes wide, and Sam just knew he was about to disappear again. “No, Gabe, wait. Please.”

Gabriel was completely still, a cornered deer staring eye to eye with a predator, before he ever so slowly sank back onto the bed.

“That was rude,” he griped, rubbing at the place on his head where Sam had, rudely, shoved his hand through.

“Sorry,” Sam said, wincing. “Are you okay?”

“You mean, after you stuck your hand in my head? I’ll live.” Gabriel’s lips twisted in a wry facsimile of his usual insolent smile. “Oh wait.”

“I mean—something bad happened the other day, didn’t it?” Sam settled back into his own pillows, twisting fully onto one side to completely face Gabriel. It was a little weird, being so intimately close to another man, but a lot less weird than it probably should have been. “Are you okay? I was worried.”

Gabriel blew out a breath and closed his eyes, shaking his head. “Of course you were, because you are a giant sap. I’m fine. I just—remembered something.”

“Oh,” Sam said. It must not have been anything good.

“I’m sorry about the microwave,” Gabriel said. He sounded like he didn’t apologize very often, and like it sort of hurt him to do so.

“It’s fine,” Sam said. It wasn’t really, but microwaves were cheap and Gabriel’s face was stripped bare, like he hurt somewhere deep.

Sam shifted from his stomach to his side, wincing when he put too much weight on his bad leg. He rolled onto his back, lightly rubbing at the nerve pain radiating from his hip.

When he glanced over, Gabriel was staring down at his hip like he could see the starburst scar puckering his skin. “Tell me what happened.”

Sam didn't pretend to not know what Gabriel was referring to. He didn't like talking about it. But getting shot in the hip was worlds away from being stabbed for trying to help your family.

“I worked Homicide in San Francisco,” Sam began, haltingly. “We'd had a recent string of domestic murders that started back in May. That happens sometimes, you know? It’ll be quiet for months and then bam, suddenly there's a spike in murders. Everyone thought it was just that—something in the water, maybe, but I started noticing a pattern.”

There was a hum of electricity across his arm. Sam turned his head. Gabriel had abandoned the thread and was now playing with the hair on Sam's forearm, making them stand on end every time he passed his fingers too close to Sam's skin. When Sam stopped talking, Gabriel looked up at him, one eyebrow raised in a ‘go on’ expression.

“All of the murderers had alibis,” Sam explained, watching the slow sweep of Gabriel's hand. It was distracting. “Not airtight, but all were pretty solid. It made me—suspicious. So I decided to check out one of the crime scenes again. That's when I found a bloody trail, leading from under the back window down into a manhole.”

“Let me guess,” Gabriel interrupted, tone dry, “you went down the manhole.”

“I went down the manhole,” Sam agreed, with a sigh. “And I saw some seriously disturbing shit down there. Clumps of bloody hair. Gooey stuff that was like _melted skin_ —I was too busy trying not to vomit all over the crime scene to realize I wasn't alone.”

“Ugh,” Gabriel said, wrinkling his nose delicately.

“Yeah. So the guy didn't take very well to me interrupting him and took off.”

“And you chased him,” Gabriel sighed, shaking his head. “Seriously, Sammy, what were you thinking?”

“Who's telling the story here?” Sam huffed. “I was thinking I had the perp, and that I had my gun. So I chased him through the streets—that’s what you saw in my dream, you know. He turned on Jones St., then down this little alley.

“His name was Michael O’Leary. We’d booked him just that afternoon for murder charges, and he was sitting in a holding cell at county that afternoon. Only—yeah. There he was, standing at the end of the alley, in front of an overflowing dumpster, grinning at me with half his freakin’ teeth falling out.” 

No one actually believed him about this part. They said it was trauma, or because he was high on fifty different types of drugs after getting shot, but Sam knew who he saw.

“He pulled the gun on me, but I shot him first. Right in the chest. Fat lot of good that did. He just grinned at me and, bam.” Sam did a finger gunshot at the ceiling, then slowly dropped his arm back down.

Sam remembered everything with snapshot clarity. Michael had looked _off_ , half his face sagging as if he were wearing a costume that didn’t fit quite right. He had recoiled when Sam’s shot had hit him on the chest, but he hadn’t fallen. He’d just lifted his own gun and grinned, teeth tumbling out of his mouth.

“It hurt.”

Gabriel snorted, pushing himself up on one arm. “Something tells me that’s an understatement, big guy.”

“It _really_ hurt.”

“Yes, that’s much better.” Gabriel frowned down at Sam’s hip. “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”

Sam frowned, pushing himself up and into a sitting position. That usually wasn’t the response he got after telling his story. “What do you mean?” When Gabriel just looked up at him expectantly, Sam shrugged. “Good news, I guess.”

“The good news is, you aren’t crazy. That was Michael O’Leary—or, at least, someone who made themselves out to look a lot like him.”

That was—surprisingly relieving to hear. Sam had known what he saw, but with everyone telling him it was his traumatized mind playing tricks on him, he’d started to doubt. 

“Oh,” he said.

“The bad news is: Shapeshifters are a thing, and can only be killed with silver or decapitation.”

“What?” Sam demanded.

“That thing that shot you? Wasn’t human.”

“How do you know this?”

Gabriel shrugged. “It’s like Abba, I guess.”

“Really?” Sam said, face scrunching in confusion, before morphing into growing horror. “And that thing’s still running around SF?”

Gabriel shrugged, unconcerned. “Most likely.”

“Are you telling me innocent men are going to jail?” Sam said, pushing himself out of his bed. “Gabriel, I have to do something.”

“Like what? Call up one of your cop buddies? Yes, I can see how well that would go.” Gabriel held out his pinky and thumb and brought his hand to his face like a phone. “‘Hey, Pinkerton! Yeah, it’s me, Sambo. Remember that case we were investigating back in May? Well, it turns out it was _actually_ some dude wearing Michael O’Leary like a two dollar WalMart Halloween costu— _click!_ —hello? Pinkerton?” Gabriel hung up the imaginary phone, looking up at Sam with both his eyebrows raised.

“I get it,” Sam said, tightly. “What am I supposed to do, then?”

“Nothing,” Gabriel said, watching Sam with intent eyes. “Why do you need to do anything?”

“I’m not just going to sit around with my thumbs up my ass while people are _dying_ , Gabriel,” Sam snapped, prowling around his room. Gabriel was right. No one from his unit would believe _shapeshifter_ , not even the ones who also noticed there was something off about the case. And it wasn't like he could go haring after supernatural beasts these days. 

Sam whirled around, pointing a finger at Gabriel in revelation. “Dean. Dean could go.”

“Oh, brilliant plan. Send the one even less experienced than you.”

Sam frowned, lowering his finger. “Who said Dean was inexperienced?”

  


  


“So let me get this straight,” Dean said, frowning down at the weird mix of weapons and cutlery scattered across Sam's kitchen table. “You want me to kill a shapeshifter? With your best silver?”

“This isn't mine,” Sam said, frowning at the table, then at Gabriel.

“Well, you needed silver,” Gabriel said, petulantly. “I can return it after.”

Sam considered exactly what Dean was planning on doing with the silverware, then screwed up his face in disgust. “You really can't.”

“Shapeshifters,” Dean said, a familiar gleam in his eye. “And you're telling me this was the asshole who shot Sammy?”

“Yep,” Gabriel said, popping the p.

“Okay then. How do I find him?”

Gabriel shook his head, disbelieving. “I get that your little brains can't comprehend anything beyond human, but this ain't gonna be like shooting some harmless little rabbit. This thing? It's a monster. It's worse than the things in your worst nightmares. Dean-o here hasn't got a chance.”

“No. He does,” Sam said, confidently. 

“Oh yeah?” Gabriel asked, scornfully. “Is Dean some sort of deviant MacGyver—”

Dean picked up the gun and dismantled it with practiced ease, then casually reached over to grab Sam's kitchen towel to clean it.

“Yes,” Sam said.

“That was unexpectedly hot,” Gabriel said, blankly. Sam threw a spoon through his head.

“Our father was a marine,” Dean explained, choosing to ignore everything that was Gabriel. “He was one of those guys who was a bit too paranoid about the ‘end of times’. Made sure me and Sammy knew how to take care of ourselves whenever he had the chance.”

“That makes things much—” Gabriel cut off, eyes widening, and then he abruptly vanished. That was the only warning they got before the front door creaked open and Castiel walked in like that was _normal_. 

And okay, so maybe the dude was a little weird.

“Jesus Christ!” Sam yelped. He had snatched up a butter knife like that was a perfectly acceptable weapon of choice. Not that the dismantled gun Dean had pointed at Castiel was much better. He lowered it quickly.

“I apologize if I am intruding,” Castiel said. “You had mentioned I may visit Gabriel at any time. Is he around?”

“Usually you knock first,” Sam grumbled, sinking back into his chair.

“He just left,” Dean said, tossing the grip to the table.

“I see,” Castiel said, looking down. “I believed I saw him the other day, but I must have been mistaken.

It was hard not to feel sorry for this extremely awkward dude. Dean could tell Sam was annoyed, probably because Gabriel had ran off with his tail between his legs, _again_ , but Dean couldn't really blame Castiel. He obviously, desperately, wanted to see his brother, and Dean _got_ that.

“Are you going on a hunt?” Castiel asked, examining the table.

Dean followed his gaze and tried to come to the same conclusion he had. The gun, sure, but the piles of utensils didn't quite fit.

“You could call it that,” Sam said hesitantly. With a growing suspicion.

“Shapeshifter or werewolf?” Castiel said.

Sam flung his hands in the air in a mix of surprise and frustration. “Are you serious right now?”

Castiel looked at Dean, eyebrows drawn together. Dean, who had been just as fed up with all this bullshit, wilted a little under Castiel's obvious confusion. “Don't mind him, Cas. He's just butthurt that we’re the last to know about this supernatural party.”

This just seemed to surprise Castiel even more, but Dean had a feeling everything surprised Castiel.

“Shapeshifter,” Dean sighed.

“You will be hunting it by yourself,” Castiel stated. “I would not recommend that. I will go with you.”

“No way,” Dean said, reassembling the gun.

“That was not an offer,” Castiel said, flatly.

“I don't actually care. There is no way I'm bringing a civilian with me to get himself killed. You stay here with Sam—Gabriel’ll probably be back soon.”

“Dean.”

“Castiel.” Dean leveled Castiel with his most ‘no nonsense’ look. “You're not coming with me, and that's final.”

  


  


Two hours later, Dean held out his credit card to a bored looking clerk and said, “We need a room,” with a silently smug Castiel standing too close because the dude needed to get the 101 on personal space.

The clerk didn't even lift an eyebrow. “King bed?”

“What?” Dean said. “No, of course not. We're not—I mean—”

“Buddy, we’re in San Francisco,” the clerk said, rolling his eyes. “I don’t know what little backwater town you come from, but your big gay love affair really isn’t all that shocking here.”

“We'll take a double,” Castiel stepped in as Dean spluttered protests in the background.

“Sure thing, man,” the clerk said, sympathetically.

“I have no idea what he was talking about,” Dean insisted to Castiel as he swiped the key card in the door.

“You should not concern yourself over such trifles,” Castiel said stiffly and, oh.

“Hey—” Dean started, feeling like a massive dick, but Castiel cut him off with a quick jerk of his head.

“Drop it, Dean,” Castiel said coldly.

“No, seriously.” Dean caught Castiel’s arm and gently turned him. Their eyes met. Castiel's expression was completely blank, and oh shit Dean had totally misread the situation, but then he dropped his eyes, a flush of pink across his cheekbones. Castiel drew away, clearing his throat.

“The shapeshifter will likely be the most active right now,” Castiel said, awkward. “We should go.”

Dean opened his mouth to try again, but the faintly terrified look Castiel shot him had him saying, almost sheepishly, “Okay.”

It was late, but the streets were still bustling with clubbers and bar hoppers dressed in way too little clothing considering how cold it was. Dean could usually metamorphose himself to fit in a crowd like this, but he preferred the smaller, quieter bars with pool tables or dart boards he could hustle. The San Francisco nightlife was bustling with the weird, the young, and the newly rich, and everyone was trying just a little too hard. 

Dean might have felt out of place, but it was Castiel, with his rumpled trench coat and stern expression, and who looked like he would fit in better at an accounting firm, who got the looks. Some amused, some disdainful, several interested. Dean glared back at them all.

“Keep your head in the game, Dean,” Castiel chastised, as if reading Dean’s mind.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean said, gruffly.

They ducked through the darker side streets of San Francisco and into the corners the clubbers avoided. Dean’s pockets clinked with stolen cutlery. The gun was a much more comforting weight in his hip holster.

They ended up down a quiet street. A homeless man sat in one bench, but he just quietly smoked his cigarette as Dean and Castiel levered themselves down a manhole. 

“Ugh,” Dean groaned, when they splashed down into some truly terrible stuff. He covered his nose with his sleeve. “Man, the things I do for that kid.”

“You are not just doing this for your brother,” Castiel said, simply.

“Well, no,” Dean agreed, flicking his flashlight on. “But that is a big part of it.”

They made their way down the curving tunnel. Most of the the tunnels they turned down led to dead ends. Dean took note of the ones that had steel wall ladders that would take them back to the surface and determinedly did not think about just what was sinking into his boots. 

“So how did you get into this business, anyway?” Dean asked as they trudged their way back down yet another dead end tunnel. 

“My family,” Castiel said hesitantly, and yeah that made sense. Gabriel had been the one to tell them about the shapeshifter, after all. With one thing and another, Dean had totally forgotten Gabriel and Castiel were brothers. 

“Right, of course,” Dean said. “Gabriel. He’s the one who told us about the shapeshifter.”

“His memory has returned?” Castiel asked, hopefully.

“I don’t know, man,” Dean said, apologetically. “Sam would know better. I’ll ask him, later.”

Castiel nodded. They continued in silence down several more tunnels. In the fourth tunnel they came across, something caught Dean’s attention and he frowned, leaving Castiel to examine a mark he’d noticed on one of the walls.

“Oh, ugh,” Dean said, staggering back a step. The pile of—was that _skin?_ —made Dean’s stomach crawl up in his throat because that? Was so wrong on so many different levels.

“Dean, look out!”

Dean had just enough time to whirl around before he was snatched up by the ugliest motherfucker he had ever seen and flung into the wall at the end of the tunnel. His head slammed dizzyingly hard against the wall, vision momentarily fuzzing out black. The shapeshifter lurched after him, dragging a leg that no longer seemed to work. 

So Dean was screwed six ways to Sunday. He scrabbled at his coat pocket, desperate to grab anything that might deter this monster but unable to get his hands to work properly.

_This_ was the thing that shot Sammy? No wonder why he’d been such a wreck.

“Dean!” Castiel shouted, but he was too far away. The shapeshifter was already lunging for Dean, mouth open like he wanted to eat Dean's face off. His face was like one of those Japanese Noh masks: human-like but stretched out and _wrong_. 

Dean had just wrapped his hand around a fork when there was the sound like a coat flapping and Castiel was abruptly in front of him. Great shadows spread out from his back, huge fuck-off wings spanning protectively around Dean. Castiel was half-turned away, but Dean could see one furiously bright blue eye.

“Angel,” the shapeshifter gasped in awe, and then turned and scrambled away, disappearing into the shadows.

Castiel watched him go, wings still aggressively outstretched. He turned back to Dean. Dean was pressed up against the wall, eyes wide and mouth half open. He was clenching a fork by his side.

“Dean,” Castiel said, taking a step toward him.

“Stay back,” Dean snapped, pressing closer to the wall. He lifted the fork. “What the hell are you?”

Something flashed in Castiel's eyes—hurt?—and the wings vanished. Abruptly, he looked like his normal, if slightly more rumpled, tax accountant self.

“I am an angel,” Castiel said.

“Angels aren't real,” Dean spat. “Tell me another.”

“Your brother is being haunted by a ghost and we just fought a shapeshifter. Why would you think angels ‘aren’t real’?” Castiel asked, cocking his head to the side and simultaneously managing to look curious and annoyed. It was amazing how sarcastic he managed to sound while maintaining his gravelly monotone.

It was a good point, but Dean couldn’t seem to latch onto anything more than: _angels, what the fuck_. Cas was—Dean had— 

His head hurt.

“I’m going back to the hotel,” Dean grumbled, turning around to stalk to one of the tunnels nearby that had a ladder. He glanced over his shoulder when he didn’t hear Castiel follow. 

Castiel was looking down and to the left, arms hanging loosely at his sides and the most woebegone expression on his face Dean had seen on anything other than a puppy. Dean blew out a frustrated breath and shook his head. “Well? Are you coming?”

For a moment, Castiel said nothing. He glanced back up at Dean, eyebrows crumpled together and lips pursed, and Dean thought maybe Castiel wanted to just—fly off, or whatever angels did, but then he just nodded and trudged after Dean.


	7. Chapter 7

Sam’s cellphone was sitting deliberately on the coffee table so that he could easily answer it if Dean called. He’d grabbed it a couple of times to call him, only to toss it back onto the table. If he called when he was in the middle of a lookout and gave up his location and got him killed, Dean would probably come back as a ghost just to chew Sam out. Sam only had his fill of annoying dead people.

Speaking of dead people, where the hell was Gabriel? Sam had gone an entire hour thumbing through a worn copy of _Jurassic Park_ without having a bottle of cinnamon thrown at his head for ignoring Gabriel. He’d never returned after Dean and Castiel had taken off to San Francisco, and the apartment felt abandoned. It would be just like Gabriel to disappear again the same day he finally returned.

Too worried to go to sleep and too riled up to sit around, Sam grabbed his coat and slunk off to a bar.

Sam was far enough from the city that it was easier to find the types of bars he preferred: off the track dives where most of the bar goers were truckers or off duty cops. Harvelle’s Roadhouse was just off one of the dustier parts of the freeway. Sam pulled his black Honda Accord between a couple of muddy trucks and made his way into the bar.

It was an all wood joint that managed to be both homey and unfriendly, like you had to be initiated into some sort of secret society but that it would be a really great place if you passed muster. The men at the bar looked one wrong word away from an all out brawl, but also like they were slightly cowed by the hard-faced woman pointedly drying the counter in front of them.

“Boy, you're a big one,” the bartender said with a low whistle when Sam slid onto a stool. “What'll you be having tonight, son?”

“Whatever you’ve got good on tap,” Sam said, leaning his arms on the counter. It wasn’t sticky like most bars. The Harvelles kept a clean house.

“Normally I’d tell you to make your own damn choices, but you look like you’ve had a rough couple of days, kid,” the woman said, rolling an eye over his purple cheek. “You new around these parts? I’m Ellen. I own this joint.”

Sam grinned at her. “Sam Winchester.”

Ellen stared at him for so long that the beer she’d been pouring for him spilled over the lip of his glass. She startled and shook her head. “Shit, sorry. That was just—not a name I expected to hear.”

Sam raised his eyebrows as she dumped the beer out to pour a new glass, obviously a perfectionist. “What do you mean?”

“John Winchester’s your daddy, right? I didn’t know John personally, but I knew about him.” Ellen shook her head with a small laugh. “Everybody knew about him.”

Sam leaned back down, grabbing the beer with both hands when she slid it to him. His memories of his dad were—conflicting. He ended up at the academy because of his dad, but there was no way John Winchester would ever have won Father of the Year. For one thing, he was never around. And when he was around, he was more interested in forcing his sons through month long intensive drills (with nightly homework) than taking them to, say, a ballgame. Bobby Singer would always be more of a dad to Sam than John Winchester ever was.

“Yeah, he was a pretty well known PI,” Sam said, sipping his beer. 

Ellen looked up at him, gaze strangely intense, then dropped her eyes back to the counter and meticulously rubbed at a small water ring. “Yeah, he was a good PI.”

Sam couldn’t shake the feeling he was missing something and the curious part of him that drove him to become a detective perked up. Before he could ask, one of the burlier men at the end of the bar waved Ellen down, and she ducked away.

Sam frowned, but mentally shrugged it off. Her preferred asking his questions when people were surprised: it was usually easier to catch them in lies. Oh well. He could always grill her about it later.

Behind the burly man there was a redhead, sitting with her hands primly tucked in her lap. Huh. He hadn't noticed her earlier. Her features were wide and open, innocent in a way that didn't belong in a bar like this. She wasn't exactly his type: her serious expression didn't really match with the bubbly girls he tended to gravitate towards, but she was pretty and was watching him with a curious tilt to her head.

Most importantly, she was Not Dead.

He tried out his long-dusty flirtatious smile and was surprised when she slid off her chair and pulled out the stool beside him. Wow. That rarely even worked when he was actually in the game.

“Hi,” he said, still grinning lopsidedly.

“Do you have any idea what you have in your apartment?” the redhead asked.

“Oh come on,” Sam said, frustrated. He snatched up his beer and slumped over the bar. “What is this place? Sunnydale?”

“You are housing one of the most dangerous creatures in creation,” the redhead hissed, leaning closer.

“I'm ‘housing’ a mouthy-as-hell ghost,” Sam said, taking a pull from his beer.

“He was not always a ghost,” the woman said, very seriously. How was it that every person Sam came across from Gabriel's past was so damn serious? No wonder he’d wanted to get away.

“Obviously,” Sam said.

“He was once an Angel of the Lord.”

“Oka-ay!” Sam twisted around, trying to catch Ellen’s eye. “I think that's my cue.”

The girl’s hands clenched on the edge of the bar. “I am not lying, Samuel.”

Sam really wished people would stop doing that. It would be nice to one day actually introduce himself. “It's Sam. And who are you?” Sam asked, pleasantly.

“Gabriel has powers your little human mind can't even begin to comprehend,” the woman said, ignoring his question.

“I went to _Stanford_ ,” Sam protested, offended.

“Gabriel was one of the few who has actually spoken with God,” the woman shot back.

“You can't actually expect me to believe this, can you?” Sam asked, folding his arms over his chest. “Angels? Really? Tell me another.”

Even though he had solid proof that the supernatural were actually the real deal, even if angels really _did_ exist, Sam couldn't reconcile the guy who spelled out dirty words with Scrabble pieces on his refrigerator with the stained glass glory of the angels from his childhood. Gabriel was—Gabriel: arrogant, sarcastic, _playful_.

“Believe what you want to believe. Just know this: you cannot let them get him, no matter what they try to do.” The woman stood up, deliberately flattening out an invisible wrinkle in her skirt. “Castiel is doing what he can to protect your apartment, but there is no way he will be able to hold his own against the entire host for long.”

She considered him for a long moment, then nodded to herself and slipped off the stool, striding to the door as if her mission was done. Sam sighed down at his empty cup.

“Struck out?” Ellen asked, sympathetically. She placed a new beer in front of him, sweeping the empty glass out of his hands with practiced ease.

“You have no idea,” Sam muttered, taking the beer.

“On the house,” Ellen said, gruffly. When Sam looked up at her in surprise, she shrugged. “It’s the least I can do for a Winchester boy. Besides, you look like you need it.”

  


  


Gabriel spent the afternoon going full poltergeist on the man who thought an acceptable reaction to undercooked chicken was to hit his wife. He wondered if he’d always been this vengeful when he was alive, or if it was something he’d picked up after he’d died.

Sam was reliably good, at least. Maybe a bit of a drama queen sometimes, but—good. Gabriel drifted back to their apartment, sprawling invisible on the couch to wait for Sam. He didn’t have to wait long: soon enough, Sam was pounding back into the apartment, thumping heavily against the wall.

“Gabriel!” Sam called, struggling with one of his shoes.

Gabriel popped into existence right in front him. Sam didn’t even blink in surprise, just beamed sloppily at him. Well, well. Gabriel leaned up on his tiptoes to peer curiously into Sam’s face. “Why Sambo, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were toasty.”

“I am,” Sam said, nodding seriously.

“I’m surprised you made it home in one piece.”

“Took a cab,” Sam said, beaming dopily, then explained, “You weren’t here. No one was here.”

“Aw Sammy, feeling a little lonely? I can take care of that.” Gabriel waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“Hey that reminds me,” Sam said, apropos of absolutely nothing. “I met a girl.”

Something dark and ugly and all too surprising reared up in Gabriel's chest. “Oh, did you?” Gabriel said. He was proud of how even his voice came out, considering the revelation that had just blindsided him.

“Yeah, and she said—” Sam's eyes lit up and he took a moment to lean against the wall in a way that he probably thought was suave, looked more like he was just trying to prop himself up, and totally managed to charm Gabriel anyway. He waggled his eyebrows in a way Gabriel took credit for. “Did you fall from Heaven, Gabe? ‘Coz she said you're an angel.”

Gabriel couldn't help it. He threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, Sammy. Never change, seriously. You are the _best_ drunk.”

Sam grinned sloppily at him, lurching away from the wall. He threw an arm over Gabriel’s shoulder, only to stumble into the couch when he went right through him. “Ow. _Shit_.”

Gabriel shivered slightly. Having someone go through you was a really fucking unpleasant, but Sam was pretty obliterated and was looking like he’d kicked Gabriel’s dog, so Gabriel forgave him.

“You okay there, Sambo?” Gabriel asked, shoving his hands in his pockets to keep himself from fluttering around Sam like a concerned wife. “Knock something loose?”

“That’ll hurt more tomorrow than it does right now,” Sam said, surprisingly astute for someone as wasted as Sam was. He added, very carefully, “I think I should lie down.”

“Probably a good idea. Come on, kid, let’s get you to bed.”

Sam managed to get to his room in one piece by leaning heavily against the wall the entire time. He sank down to the foot of the bed, frowning down at his shoelaces as if they were Gordian knots, then back up at Gabriel. “She did, though. Some girl did.”

“Did what?” Gabriel asked distractedly, crouching in front of Sam’s shoes. Touching humans was out, but he should be able to manage a pair of shoelaces.

“Said you were an angel.”

“Huh,” Gabriel said, deliberately taking off both of Sam’s shoes before sitting back on his heels to look up at Sam. Sam peered back down at him, earnestly. Gabriel thought about the glowing wings bound to Castiel's back, the way he seemed way too huge to be crammed up into such a little package. He felt like everything had just shifted abruptly to the left and clicked back into its proper place. “Makes sense.”

“You don’t actually think you’re an angel, do you?”

“Why not? It fits.”

“I must be drunker than I thought,” Sam said, then flopped back onto his bed.

Gabriel flopped down beside him, also sprawling on his back. He threw out his arms, ignoring that one went through Sam’s chest. Sam didn’t seem to mind, anyway.

“Shit,” Gabriel said.

“You remember something?” Sam asked. His eyes were half-closed and foggy.

He did. He’d been remembering things slowly, flashes of things that didn’t make a whole lot of sense. They made a lot more sense when you added ‘immortal angel’ to the picture.

“No, it just—doesn’t feel wrong,” Gabriel said. “It’s like, if you told me I was a mermaid, I would have laughed at you. I mean, I laughed at you anyway, but I also believe you.” Gabriel shook his head again. “Angels. Huh.”

“I guess,” Sam said, dubiously.

“Like I said, it feels right. It would be like if you were in my place and couldn’t remember who you were, and I told you you were human. You’d be all, ‘well, yeah. Obviously.’ That’s how I feel. Though I would have preferred to be a yeti.”

“Why a yeti?” Sam asked, looking as if he knew he was going to regret asking but felt compelled to, anyway.

“They’re tall,” Gabriel said.

“I’m tall,” Sam observed.

“You’re right, you _must_ be a yeti.”

Sam laughed, startled and bright. Oh yes, Gabriel was in trouble.

  


  


Dean didn’t say a word to Castiel the entire walk back to the hotel. His brain was a white noise of confusion and—betrayal, which wasn’t entirely fair. Castiel hadn’t told him he was an angel, but that wasn’t exactly something you sprung on someone on the first date.

They went through one of the back entrances to avoid the night auditor and ended up traumatizing an elderly man in a bathrobe sneaking out for a cigarette. Dean just scowled at him, which probably didn't help matters. They were probably going to get kicked out in the middle of the night.

“So,” Dean said, when they got back to the hotel room and the silence had reached new levels of unbearable. “Angels.”

Castiel’s entire body locked up for a second, then he sagged slightly and sat at the edge of one bed, movements slow and deliberate as if he thought any sudden movement would send Dean flying out the door. It probably would at this point.

“I was planning on telling you soon,” Castiel said.

“Like, for real angels? Fluffy white wings and all?”

“Although we have wings, those depictions are inaccurate.” Castiel looked up at him, eyes tight in the corners. Dean wasn’t sure how he could tell, since the rest of his face was blank, but Castiel was—scared. No, terrified.

If Dean was a better person, he would have reassured Castiel. But he was feeling more than a little unbalanced. His world used to have some semblance of order and Dean didn't really appreciate having everything turned on its head.

“Wow,” Dean exhaled. He frowned at Castiel, then stalked across the hotel room to the bathroom.

“Dean?” Castiel asked, cautiously.

“I'm going to shower,” Dean said, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.

He may have hid in the bathroom for over an hour. 

When he stepped out again, Castiel was sitting exactly how he left him. Dean grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair and strode towards the door, not even acknowledging the _angel_ sitting at the foot of one of the beds.

“I'm going out.”

“Dean—”

“I'll be back in a minute.”

A minute turned into a six pack in the middle of an empty park. Someone had tentatively tried to mug him, but Dean laughed in his face and flashed some metal. No one bothered him after that. 

He really wasn't that surprised when there was a rustle and Castiel stepped up beside him.

“I wish I knew the words to say that would make this better,” Castiel said.

Dean sighed from where he was sprawled out on the grass, then patted the ground beside him. “Look I—get it. I mean, I don’t really understand the whole angel thing, I guess, but it’s your secret to tell. And we don't even know each other.”

Castiel paused, then lowered himself onto the grass beside Dean. “Did you have any questions?”

“Only like, a million,” Dean muttered, pushing himself back into a seated position. He grabbed another beer, popping it open with his belt buckle. “Does that mean you're all angels? That asshole—Ezra?”

“Yes,” Castiel said.

“So angels can be douchebags.”

Castiel looked at him as if he hadn’t expected that. “Angels are not all clones of one another. Our Father made us to be his warriors, but he created each one of us individually. We have distinct personalities, like humans.”

Dean huffed a breath. “I guess that explains Gabriel. He’s an angel too, right?”

Castiel nodded, once. Dean blew out a breath between his teeth. He had no idea how Sam was going to take the news that his amnesiac ghost was also an angel. What the ever loving fuck.

“Somehow, I didn’t think angels could die.”

“We can only die if we are killed,” Castiel said.

Which explained Gabriel. Dean winced. He still had about five million questions, but the fight and the alcohol were wearing him down. He draped one arm over his eyes.

“Perhaps it would be prudent if we continued this conversation tomorrow,” Castiel suggested. “After you’ve had some rest.”

“Yeah,” Dean said. He struggled to his feet and grabbed the case of empty bottles, only swaying a little bit. “Okay.”


	8. Chapter 8

Sam was only vaguely aware of the conversation he was having with Gabriel: something about yetis, and angels, and how Gabriel was possibly one or the other—or was he a mermaid?—but after that, things got fuzzy. He managed to get himself into bed without breaking his other hip and was out cold a heartbeat later.

He blinked open his eyes a second later, warm water dripping down his face, into the corners of his mouth. Hot, slippery hands slid down his sides and he leaned forward, bracing himself against the cold shower wall. Gabriel wouldn’t fucking stay still, wiggling slick against him, nipping sharp little bites against his collarbone. Sam made an appreciative noise, a humming groan against one shoulder, and rolled his hips into a smooth hot glide of bare skin.

Gabriel went still, hands clenching bruisingly hard around Sam’s sides. Sam hissed and ducked his head down to bite his shoulder in retaliation, using his entire body to push Gabriel up against the shower wall. Except Gabriel was no longer squirming provocatively, which wasn’t fun _at all_ , and Sam pulled back to frown down at him. 

Gabriel eyes were a little wide, a lot amused, and something—else. Darker. Hungrier. 

“ _Well_ ,” he said.

Awareness smacked into Sam like a brick to the face and he jerked back, almost slipping on the tile to possibly (hopefully) brain himself to death. Gabriel hadn’t let go of Sam’s waist and he was stronger than Sam realized, keeping him steady with a solidness that didn’t really belong in a slippery shower. “Gabriel! What the hell are you doing?”

“Don’t look at me, big guy,” Gabriel said, grinning lasciviously. He followed Sam’s hasty retreat, hands sliding down to Sam’s hips in one long stroke. Sam jerked back instinctively, though his dick had other ideas and twitched with traitorous interest. Gabriel licked his lips and he said, a low growl. “This is all you, big guy.” 

“I’m drunk!” Sam yelped, holding his hands up.

Gabriel stopped, thank _God_. “Don’t stop now that things are getting fun, Sammy.”

“Gabriel, please,” Sam begged, panicked.

Gabriel’s face fell into overblown disappointment. He sighed dramatically and snapped his fingers, muttering “Cocktease,” under his breath.

They were sitting, fully clothed, in the middle of an empty movie theater. On the screen the scene in the shower continued to play on. Sam gaped as his own large hands grabbed Gabriel’s ass, hauling him closer until their cocks slid together, then just hoisting him up as Gabriel laughed, wrapping his legs around Sam’s waist and—

Sam slammed his eyes shut. “Oh my _God_!”

“If you won’t let me participate, the least you can do is let me watch,” Gabriel said, like that was a perfectly reasonable request.

“I’m drunk. You cannot hold a drunk sex dream against me like this,” Sam babbled frantically. It was just his fucking luck he would dream about someone who could be an _active participant_.

“Oh, Sammy, I’m not complaining at all.”

“Don’t call me that!”

The Gabriel on the screen interrupted them by moaning enthusiastically and Sam could _hear_ the obscene wet sounds of their their cocks sliding together. His own cock pulsed in envy and Sam gripped the armrests so hard that they creaked in protest.

“Gabriel!” Sam hissed, squinting his eyes open to glare at the ghost.

Gabriel was eating popcorn. When he noticed Sam staring at him in disbelief, he held out the large bucket and asked, “Want some?” 

Sam shot out of his seat. “I'm going,” he said, loudly.

Gabriel tsked and snapped his fingers. The screen froze on Gabriel enthusiastically sucking one of Sam's fingers into his mouth as Sam pressed an open mouthed kiss against the side of Gabriel's neck. It was kind of—tamely sweet, all things considered, but Sam still quickly looked away. 

“You are no fun,” Gabriel pouted.

Sam cautiously sat back down as the screen switched to a commercial about—genital herpes, nice. He wondered if he should feel awkward about it, but Gabriel had found a box of Raisinets and had tossed one in the air, catching it expertly in his mouth. He closed his eyes and groaned way too inappropriately for a gross chocolate covered raisin, which was nearly as bad as the porn. 

“Oh hells, how could I forget how wonderful candy is?”

“You can taste things here?” Sam asked, still flushed and tingling from where Gabriel had been pressed against him, but eager to soldier forward like none of that just happened. Running away still sounded like an excellent idea, but instead he grabbed the bucket of popcorn for himself.

“Hey!” Gabriel protested. Sam tossed an experimental kernel in his mouth. Salty butter melted onto his tongue and he licked the tips of his fingers with an appreciative hum. The popcorn was _good_.

Gabriel was watching him, his eyes hard and hungry, like in the shower. Sam shifted in his chair, thinking that Gabriel maybe wasn’t as unaffected as he was leading Sam to believe. The air hummed hot and electric between them and Sam was drawn forward, almost against his will. But then Gabriel turned back to the screen, tossing another Raisinet into the air and catching it with a snap of teeth.

Sam jerked into a sitting position in his bed, then sank back down into his pillows with a long groan. He stared up at the ceiling for a long moment, then sighed explosively and shoved himself out of bed to stagger down the hall. 

He needed a cold shower.

  


  


It was easy to pretend like nothing had happened in the dim light of the San Francisco morning. Dean didn’t bring the angelic elephant in the room up again and Castiel seemed more than happy not to talk about it.

They spent the day prowling through the city, searching all the dark corners for clues about the shapeshifter. It was weirdly nice, getting to see the non-touristy parts of San Francisco. Sam had taken him around a couple years ago, but to places like the Golden Gate Bridge, Fisherman’s Wharf, Alcatraz. Dean liked that he and Castiel were ducking down side alleys in Chinatown, grabbing cheap dim sum for lunch before they interviewed the boss of James Yuen, the most recent vic framed by the shapeshifter. It was Dean’s idea to suit up and pretend like they were reporters for the San Francisco Chronicle, but it was Castiel who busted out the flawless Cantonese for the questioning.

“He was a good man,” Castiel told Dean after the interview. “He did not deserve to be used like such.”

Dean sighed, dropping his half-eaten pork bun back into the takeout bag. He wondered if all angels were so earnest, or if it was a Castiel thing. 

Then he remembered Gabriel and spent a couple minutes considering how freaking _weird_ real life angels were.

“We’ll get him.”

In the end, the shapeshifter found them, first.

It was late, but Castiel had insisted they check out one more location. James had been found in Hunters Point, an area his boss insisted James had no right being in.

“It is my belief that the shapeshifter left James there on purpose. The day after his wife was murdered, he called the police for help at this warehouse. Mr. Liu insisted James would never willingly go here, as it is highly dangerous,” Castiel explained. Hunters Point was the city’s violent dumping ground for old naval ships and its most marginalized residents, and it boasted the highest murder rate in San Francisco.

“If my Baby gets stolen, I swear to God there will be hell to pay,” Dean muttered, parking his car in a hidden spot near a decrepit warehouse that had probably been condemned years ago.

“Your car will be fine,” Castiel said. He didn’t exactly roll his eyes about Dean’s concern, but he didn’t sound that impressed, either.

Glass crunched under their boots as they quietly maneuvered around the large warehouse. Most of the windows had been knocked out. Dean kept one hand on his gun as they stepped through one of the broken windows, not even bothering with the steel doors.

Inside the warehouse was dark, lit only by the streetlights. Dean used the flashlight on his phone to check out a corner, not really sure what he was looking for. The beam caught something glistening and he frowned, crouching down for a closer look. 

“Oh gross,” Dean said, covering his mouth and nose with his forearm. He stumbled back from the shedded skin, revolted.

“Hey, Cas, I think he was here recently—”

A hand clamped on his shoulder and Dean turned around, expecting to see Castiel. The mug that stared back at him was horrifyingly familiar, despite wearing a completely different face. He might have looked like James Yuen once, but things weren’t fitting pretty anymore. The shapeshifter dug his fingers in and Dean was, once again, airborne. He was getting pretty tired of this shit. 

The monster wearing James lurched after Dean, bones cracking like gunshots with each step he took. Dean scrambled to his feet, grabbing his gun with a hand shaking from adrenaline and fear. 

This was the creature that had ruined Sam's life. It might have pulled human skin on like a three piece suit and top hat, but it wasn't human, it was a monster, and it had shot his baby brother.

The thought steadied him. Dean leveled the gun expertly at shapeshifter’s head and fired.

 

The shapeshifter howled in pain and stumbled back, but didn’t immediately fall. It was on Dean in the blink of an eye, punching him hard enough that his ears rang. Then he was off him again, just as quickly, and Castiel flung the shapeshifter off Dean and clear across the warehouse.

“Are you injured?” Castiel asked, voice as disinterested as ever. But his eyes were cataloguing each new scrape on Dean’s face and his expression was growing stonier by the second. 

Dean coughed and let Castiel pull him to his feet. “I’ll live.” 

The shapeshifter was also getting up. His face was so disfigured it was impossible to identify any expression on his features, but Dean just knew he was going to make a break for it again. He staggered after him to—to do _what_ , he didn’t know—but Castiel grabbed him and slipped one hand into his pocket.

“Woah, hey,” Dean said, jerking back. 

Castiel withdrew a silver butter knife and heaved it at the shapeshifter’s back. It struck him like a throwing knife. The shapeshifter stumbled two more steps, before collapsing to the ground.

  


  


They drove the two hours back to the apartment instead of going back to the Marriott. There was something to be said about staying at motels. At least they could be relied on not to ask too many questions. It wasn’t something Dean had ever needed to worry about in the past, but not something he felt up to testing for a second night.

“It is late,” Castiel said in the elevator. Dean was leaning heavily against the wall, eyes half shut. 

“Yeah,” Dean mumbled.

“You may use my shower if you do not wish to disturb your brother.”

Dean blinked his eyes open at Castiel. “Thanks, man. That’d be great.” Tired as he was, there was no way he was going to sleep in his current condition. His clothing would have to be _burned_.

“You did well,” Castiel praised.

Dean snorted. “You were the one who skewered him with cutlery, Cas.” If Dean wasn’t a breath away from passing out, he’d freak out about that. “A butter knife,” he repeated.

“It was nothing,” Castiel demurred.

“Right.”

He spent a long time in the shower, scrubbing himself long after his skin was already clean. All the thoughts he’d managed to repress during the hunt came tumbling back into his brain. Castiel was an angel. He was using an angel’s shower, and that was almost too weird for words. 

Showering went a long way towards making him feel alive again, and by the time he stepped out he felt mostly normal. It was only after he’d wrapped the towel around his waist that he realized there was absolutely no way he was getting back into his clothing.

“Hey, Cas?” Dean asked, pushing the door open. Steam billowed after him. “Got something I can borrow?”

Castiel turned from the sink and froze, eyes widening. Right. Castiel most likely preferred dudes and Dean was strutting around his apartment half-naked in some sort of unplanned mating dance. 

Castiel blinked at him as if he was staring into the sun. He looked stunned, lips parting slightly, and Dean suddenly found it hard to breathe. 

“Uh,” Castiel said, uncharacteristically at a loss for words. Dean stepped towards him. “Yes,” Castiel breathed.

Dean caught Castiel’s face between both his hands and ducked down, capturing Castiel’s exhaled word in an open mouthed kiss. Castiel’s hands flew up to clutch at Dean’s shoulders, pulling at him insistently, and then sliding up to grip the short hair at the back of his head. Dean crowded him tightly against the counter, hungrily pressing in harder, grabbing Castiel’s waist hard enough to bruise. The low, rumbling growl that reverberated through Castiel in response had Dean thrusting against him, gasping into his mouth.

Castiel was clumsy, but fucking _eager_ , licking into Dean’s mouth as if he was desperate for it. For Dean. Dean shuddered like like Castiel was sucking his cock and not just his lower lip, and he rolled forward, pressing his already aching cock against the hard line of Castiel’s. 

“Fuck, Castiel,” Dean ground out, breathing hot and shallow against his cheek.

Castiel took that as an invitation, dropping his hands to pull at Dean’s towel. His knuckles brushed against Dean’s bare skin and his muscles jumped at the contact. Castiel hesitated, staring down at his hand with his lips slightly parted and breath coming out in shallow pants. His eyes flicked back to Dean’s face. Whatever he saw there must have been encouraging, because he pressed his lips together in a determined line and yanked the towel away. Dean’s own hands flew forward to clutch at the edge of the counter.

“You have no _idea_ ,” Castiel said through gritted teeth, wrapping long fingers around Dean’s dick. Dean moaned helplessly, jerking into Castiel’s tight fist. It was too dry and too fucking good, and Dean was completely gone, gasping into the crook of Castiel’s neck. “No _idea_.”

“Cas,” Dean gasped, not even sure what he was asking for. 

“Can you possibly comprehend what this is like for me?” Castiel’s voice growled into Dean’s ear. “To want you as much as I do?”

“ _Dammit_ ,” Dean groaned, then practically ripped open the front of Castiel’s pants. He had no idea what he was doing; he’d been with other guys before, but never like this, not with the sharp edge of desperation in the air, but Castiel was groaning and rolling up into his hand, mouth dropping slightly open to gasp in air.

“Dean,” Castiel said on an exhale, like a benediction, and Dean fell into him again, kissing him hard.


	9. Chapter 9

It should have been awkward, but Castiel was always awkward so it actually wasn’t as big of a deal as Dean had expected it to be. When Dean blinked awake in Castiel’s bed that morning, and before he could even work himself up into a proper panic attack (he had sex with an _angel_ ), Castiel had appeared at the door and said, “We should speak with your brother. There are coffee and eggs in the kitchen for you,” and added, almost shyly, “I also made you toast.” And Dean found that he was too fucking charmed to be embarrassed. 

Sam was considerably less pleasant, clearly hungover and unhappy about it. “You keep weird company,” Sam told Castiel when he opened the door to them a half an hour later.

Castiel tilted his head to the side. “To whom are you referring?”

Sam looked unimpressed by Castiel’s proper grammar, limping back into the kitchen to pour himself a cup of coffee. “You mean, aside from your brother?”

“Did Gabriel do something?” Castiel asked, concerned.

Sam opened his mouth like he was going to launch one of his usual rants, but then his cheeks flared red and he looked quickly away. “No.”

“What,” Dean said.

“Nothing,” Sam said.

“Sammy—”

“There was a girl. At the bar. Redhead,” Sam interrupted, turning to Castiel. Dean decided to let it go. For now.

“So you've met Anna,” Castiel said, looking between Sam and Dean like he didn't understand them at all. Dean empathized.

Sam collapsed back against the counter with a groan. “I knew I should have taken that apartment in San Mateo. I could have had a normal life. I could have adopted a _dog_ , instead of a—a _Gabriel_.”

Castiel’s eyes flickered to Dean, uncertainly. Unable to help himself, Dean reached over to bump the back of his knuckles against Castiel’s. Of course, since Sam was a fucking detective, he immediately straightened and pointed a finger at them, lips slowing stretching into a shit eating grin.

“You two—oh my God. Seriously?”

“I—” Castiel said, subsiding slightly.

“Shut up,” Dean told Sam gruffly, stomping to the kitchen to pour himself a cup of coffee. He just knew without turning around that Sam was smirking at him. The back of his neck was burning.

Castiel sat hesitantly at the table. “We were able to successfully locate and dispense of the shapeshifter.”

Sam's smug grin faded away. A slew of emotions passed over his face, jumbled and confusing, before finally settling on a strange mix of relief and resignation. “Wow.”

“You okay, Sammy?” Dean asked, settling into the chair next to Castiel’s. He allowed their knees to press together, feeling daring.

“Yeah. It’s just—strange. I thought I’d feel closure or something but,” Sam shrugged. “At least he won’t be able to kill anyone else.”

He sounded detached, but he was meticulously straightening his utensils, only to rearrange them again. Dean wished he knew what to say—the Winchesters weren’t exactly known for their comforting bedside manner. Anyway, Sam needed time to process. Dean could give him that.

Sam cleared his throat. “So, Anna. She’s another angel?”

He dropped it so casually into the conversation that for a moment Dean totally forgot that Sam wasn’t supposed to know about angels and he nodded. Then he shot straight up from his slouch. “How do you know about angels?”

“How do _you_ know about angels?” Sam frowned, before his confusion cleared and he answered his own question. “Castiel.”

“He learned of my true nature when we fought the shapeshifter for the first time,” Castiel admitted. “I am curious how you came to learn about our existence.”

“Anna,” Sam sighed, resting his chin on his palm. “I didn’t believe her at first, but Gabriel seemed pretty convinced.”

“He’s remembering?” Castiel asked, hopefully.

“A little,” Sam said.

Castiel nodded thoughtfully, then took a tentative sip of the coffee Dean had placed in front of him. He didn’t look very impressed, nose wrinkling slightly. 

“Are you—fallen?” Sam asked hesitantly, which meant he had been going for tactful but couldn’t quite figure out how to word it without being offensive.

“No,” Castiel said. There was almost a sneer to his tone. “But I have been cut off from the host. There is an angel named Metatron ruling Heaven, but he is unable to take complete control because there is still one archangel left.”

“Who?” Dean asked, though he had a sinking feeling in his stomach he wasn’t going to like Castiel’s answer.

Castiel looked at the wall that separated his apartment from Sam’s.

“Cas—you're joking, right?” Dean asked, pursing his lips together. “You can't be serious. Gabriel? An archangel?”

“I need a drink,” Sam said, stumbling to his feet. It hadn’t even hit the double digits of the a.m., but Dean didn’t blame him.

“Archangels are—absolute,” Castiel said, looking somewhere over Sam’s shoulder. Dean glanced at Sam's shoulder, in case an archangel had—decided to appear on it, oh God, he was going crazy. “They are the most fearsome wrath of Heaven.”

“ _Gabriel_?” Dean repeated. He shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. There’s no way that pipsqueak is ‘the most fearsome wrath of Heaven.’ Have you met him?”

“He has not always been like this,” Castiel insisted as Sam sat back down with a bottle of whiskey. He splashed some into his coffee, then added some to Dean’s without needing to be asked. “You are seeing him greatly diminished: not only has he been cut off from the host for millennia—”

“‘The host’?” Sam mouthed at the ceiling.

“—but his grace has been literally ripped out of him.”

“Hold on, slow down,” Dean said, putting his hands up. “Host? Grace? _Millennia_?”

“Gabriel left heaven thousands of years ago, when the fight between Michael and Lucifer was at its most intense. Heaven believed he had died; in reality, he had hidden himself on Earth as the pagan god Loki.”

Sam grinned helplessly, face still half hidden behind his hand. _That_ Dean could almost believe. Of course Gabriel would be Loki.

“We were not aware he was still alive until he appeared during the final battle between Michael and Lucifer, and tackled Lucifer back into hell.”

“Oh my God,” Sam said, weakly.

Dean rubbed his hands over his face. “Cas. You can’t just—say stuff like that and expect us to comprehend. You need to break it down for us.”

“I apologize,” Castiel said, frowning at them. “It would perhaps be best if I started with the prophecy.”

Apparently, heaven and hell had a scheduled final throwdown with Earth as the agreed upon battleground _and_ the spoils of war, if there was anything remaining. Castiel’s biggest brother was going to stab Castiel’s second biggest brother with a giant sword, and all of Earth would bliss out in Paradise. 

“So we would have essentially become a bunch of drones,” Dean said. It made him feel sick, the idea that his control would just be stripped away.

“You would have spent eternity in bliss,” Castiel countered.

“Bliss means nothing if that’s all you know,” Dean said, crossing his arms. “How can you comprehend happiness if it’s forced on you? If you don’t know the meaning of sadness, too?”

“Okay,” Sam said, shooting Dean an odd look. “Let’s continue the philosophical debate later.”

“On the intended day, Lucifer crawled out of his cage, but Michael and the entire host was waiting for him,” Castiel continued, but he was still looking thoughtfully at Dean. “The battle waged on for several days. You may have heard about the storm in Ilchester, Maryland last year? The one where most the city had to evacuate?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, blankly. He had donated to a relief fund for the victims. If he had known it was the apocalypse, he would have given more than twenty bucks.

“There was a brief break in the battle, and Gabriel appeared between the two. It was—shocking. We had believed our brother to be dead for thousands of years. Gabriel apologized for interrupting, then grasped tightly onto Lucifer and threw himself into the cage.”

“Oh,” Sam breathed, eyes wide.

“I’m gonna guess Michael and Lucifer didn’t like that much,” Dean said.

“You are correct,” Castiel said. “And even in their weakened state, they were stronger than Gabriel. As they fell, Lucifer clawed Gabriel’s grace out of him.”

Sam flinched back, like he was the one being torn into.

“And Michael—” Castiel’s expression tightened. He looked down at the table. “Michael’s sole purpose was to kill Lucifer. When Gabriel tackled Lucifer into hell, Michael followed. His final attempt to kill Lucifer was to stab through Gabriel. It did not work.”

Dean reached over to grab Sam’s shoulder. There was a fine tremor going through Sam. His little brother had always been a soft touch, but this was—fuck. Dean didn’t like Gabriel all that much, but even he felt a little sick. Dean was abruptly and fiercely glad Gabriel couldn’t remember the details.

“And then?” Sam asked, voice hoarse. Dean squeezed his shoulder.

“It’s my belief that Gabriel’s grace has been torn into four different pieces,” Castiel said, oblivious to the minor breakdown Sam was having. “If it remained whole when it fell back to Earth after being torn away, it would have leveled half of North America. I think I have located one of the pieces within Death Valley. Reports of an oasis found began a year ago, directly after Gabriel was stabbed.”

Sam’s shoulder had gone completely tense under Dean’s hand. “Castiel. What are you saying.”

Castiel tilted his head to the side. “If we locate his grace, I see no reason why he would be unable to return to his corporeal form.”

Sam dropped his head to his hands.

“Castiel,” Dean said. “Are you absolutely sure about this?”

“Angels do not die like humans do. If we are killed, we no longer exist. For Gabriel to be here, corporeal or not—” Castiel shrugged. “Yes. I am sure.”

“Oh my God,” Sam said, voice wavering. He lurched to his feet unsteadily. 

“Sam?” Dean asked, pushing himself halfway out of his chair.

“I’ve got to find him,” Sam said.

Dean settled back down into his chair as Sam stumbled into his bedroom. He looked at Castiel, who was sitting placidly across the table, hands folded on the surface. 

“I have a question,” Dean said.

“Of course, Dean,” Castiel said, softly.

“Why are you protecting him? Gabriel, I mean. I thought all of Heaven would want Michael to kill Lucifer.”

“It may seem odd, but not all of us wanted the apocalypse to happen. The death toll would have been immeasurable for angels and humans alike. We did not believe that is what He would have wanted. There are those of us who believe Gabriel’s interference was God’s will,” Castiel said, after a thoughtful moment. “Gabriel is, after all, the Lord’s Messenger.”

  


  


“Gabriel?”

Immediately, Gabriel popped into view, sprawled over the foot of Sam’s bed. He perched his chin on the palm of his hand and looked up at Sam. He hadn't seen Sam since their little tete-a-tete in the shower. Truthfully, he’d sort of expected Sam to hole up in a humiliated rage for a couple of days before he willingly reached out to Gabriel. It was a nice surprise to be proven wrong, though there was a delicious pink flush that spread over Sam's face when Gabriel appeared. Oh, was he going to get mileage out of that.

“What’s up, Sambo? Are you looking for Round 2?” Gabriel asked, waggling his eyebrows.

“I know what you are,” Sam said, ignoring the come on.

Gabriel waved a dismissive hand. “Yes, yes. Angel of the Lord. We've been through all this before. I mean, you were pretty obliterated, but that's old news.”

“Archangel,” Sam corrected. “Archangel of the Lord. One of the four big ones.”

Gabriel's hand froze mid-wave. “Archangel?”

Sam sat beside Gabriel on the bed and Gabriel pushed himself into a sitting position, crossing his legs. “You were one of the first four created, and one of the few who have actually spoken with God.”

“So,” Gabriel said, cocking his head to the side. “Does this mean I'm as cool as I think I am?”

Sam paused to think about it, then shook his head. “No. Absolutely not. I don’t think that’s possible.”

“Hey!”

Sam grinned, this absolutely, blindingly delighted grin, and then ducked his head and laughed, which was rude. Gabriel was _with it_. “Gabriel!” Sam practically barked. “Don’t you get it? Archangels don’t become ghosts! _You’re not dead_.”

Gabriel went perfectly still.

“Castiel thinks if we can find your grace, we can return you to your true form,” Sam was babbling, words coming out in an excited rush, but he sounded oddly distant. “He thinks it’s been broken into four pieces, and that one of the pieces is in Death Valley. We can bring you back!”

“I—” Gabriel said. He felt curiously blank.

“We’ll get back your grace,” Sam said, earnestly, still so fucking excited and determined.

For once, Gabriel was completely at a loss for what to say. He had a feeling that didn’t happen very often before he died. Although, apparently _not_ dead, and he wanted that to be true so bad it burned.

“How?” he finally asked.

Sam looked taken aback, then thoughtful. Apparently, the dummy didn’t actually have a plan. Gabriel bounced up on the bed so that he was standing on it, suddenly filled with energy. He pointed at Sam. “You guys don’t have a plan, do you? Well, let me tell you, if my grace is as awesome as I think it is, you’re gonna have to bring some protection. How strong is Castiel? Is he an archangel, too?”

“I don’t think so,” Sam said. He looked steamrolled. 

Gabriel clapped, the sharp crack of sound making Sam jump a little. “Okay, let’s sync up with Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumber. Apparently, you guys need a brain in this operation.”

  


  


The door to Sam’s room burst open, startling Dean so bad he knocked over his glass of water. Even more surprising was that it was Gabriel striding out of the room as if he hadn’t been hiding from Castiel for the better part of a month. Castiel’s eyes were wide and so fucking _hopeful_ that it hurt to look at.

“Brother,” Castiel said.

“In the flesh, baby bro,” Gabriel said easily, though he seemed extra fidgety, looking anywhere but at Castiel. “Well, not really. But hopefully soon.”

Castiel’s gaze flicked to Sam, a hint of exasperation around the corners of his mouth. “I—did not wish to get your hopes up,” he said, haltingly. “Although I am reasonably sure the oasis in Death Valley is your grace, it can only be a piece of it. I have yet to determine where the rest is.”

“Not a problem!” Gabriel said, eyes unnaturally bright. “If it’s out there, we’ll find it. Besides, a piece should be good enough, right?” His expression became serious in a way Dean hadn’t even thought possible. He drifted to Castiel’s side. “You did well, brother.”

Castiel’s lips twitched up in a small smile, the first Dean had ever seen. It looked good on him. Dean sort of wished it was directed at him.

Gabriel clapped his hands together, pacing to the other side of the room. He was so full of determined energy that was spilling out of him and into the room. Even Castiel looked tentatively excited. Sam’s face was practically splitting in half by the force of his grin and Dean had a feeling his wasn’t much better.

“How are you going to get the grace?” Gabriel asked, spinning around to address Castiel.

Castiel pulled a small, empty vial out from under his shirt. It hung around his neck on a thin silver chain. “This will be able to hold it temporarily. At least, a piece of it.”

“Okay, good!” Gabriel said, turning to Sam and Dean. “So what’s our artillery?”

  


  


“So we’ve got some silver utensils, a couple of guns, and Cas’s angel blade,” Dean said, digging through the duffel bag. “Why do I feel like a mouse going after a tiger? We could use more teeth and claws, here.”

“You’re all going to die,” Gabriel confirmed, glaring into the duffel as if he’d opened a goodie bag expecting chocolate and finding worms instead.

“What else can we use against angels?” Sam asked, tossing a fork into their bag. “Are you sure they’re going to come after us?”

“An archangel is the only threat to Metatron in his current state,” Castiel explained.

“So we’re going to have the whole host come down on us?” Dean asked.

Castiel looked down, eyebrows scrunched together, like he was upset that he couldn’t single-handedly take down the entire host of Heaven to protect Dean. Dean snorted and bumped his shoulder against Castiel’s. 

Gabriel leaned an elbow on the table, resting his chin on the palm of his hand. He was watching Dean and Castiel with a knowing grin all over his smug face.

“Shut up,” Dean told Gabriel.

“You can’t tell an archangel to shut up, Dean,” Castiel hissed.

“Yeah, _Dean_ ,” Gabriel said, smirking. 

“Okay,” Sam interrupted quickly, before the conversation dissolved into a schoolyard scuffle. “Castiel, is there anything we can use for defense against angels?”

“Holy oil,” Castiel said. “It’s rare. Perhaps your father’s contact knows someone in California who has some?”

“What did you say?” Dean asked, slowly.

“Your father,” Castiel repeated, unruffled. “Doesn’t his friend Bobby Singer have any contacts out here?”


	10. Chapter 10

“In my defense, your daddy made me promise not to tell you boys about any of this,” Bobby said, twenty minutes later. His face took up the majority of Sam’s screen in the Skype call, but Sam could see the familiar spill of old books and papers behind him.

“That’s a piss poor excuse, Bobby!” Dean shouted, pacing back and forth behind Sam.

“Let me rephrase,” Bobby growled. “Your daddy made me take a blood oath that literally did not allow me to tell you two idjits about the boogeymen.” 

“Dad hunted these monsters?” Sam said, quietly. “For a living? Why didn’t he tell us?”

“John was a good hunter. One of the best,” Bobby said. “But hunting’s a dangerous job and he wanted the two of you to have a normal life.”

“Normal being relative,” Sam muttered, thinking about the ‘backpacking’ trips his father would take them on when he found time to visit, which amounted to ‘how to survive in the wilderness if you need to go into hiding’ and, on one memorable and traumatizing trip, ‘how to stitch up your brother with nothing more than dental floss and a needle.’

“He wanted to prepare you while protecting you from the details,” Bobby said.

“Were those details what got him killed?” Dean demanded.

Bobby pressed his lips together.

“God _dammit_ ,” Dean snapped, then spun around and stormed out of the room.

For a moment neither Sam nor Bobby said anything. Sam sagged back into his chair, rubbing his hands over his face. 

“Just give him a minute,” Sam said, tiredly. “It’s been a hell of a month.”

“I wish I could have kept you boys out of it,” Bobby sighed. 

“It was probably inevitable.”

Bobby got up abruptly, disappearing off screen. Sam tilted his head, as if he could see further into the room if he just got a better angle. There was the sound of books being shuffled, and then Bobby reappeared, holding a leather-bound journal. 

“Your daddy’s journal,” Bobby explained, holding it up for Sam to see. “When Dean comes home, it’ll be here for him. I’d send it express, but this ain’t the kind of thing you want lost in the mail.”

“Thanks, Bobby.”

“If you’re done buggin’ me, I got stuff I need to see to,” Bobby said, gruffly.

“Actually,” Sam said, straightening again. He compartmentalized the new information about his father to examine another day. “We need holy oil. Do you have a contact out here who might have some?”

Bobby’s entire face twisted into a furious scowl. “Now what the hell do you need _that_ for?”

  


  


“You know,” Sam said wistfully, as Dean pulled the Impala into The Roadhouse’s parking lot. They’d left Gabriel and Castiel to have their brotherly reunion in privacy, with the handy excuse of researching where the rest of Gabriel’s grace might be. Sam left Castiel strict instructions not to let Gabriel anywhere near his computer. “I had a normal life, once. Friends. A steady girlfriend. A good job. There was a time when I spent my Saturdays marathoning Star Wars movies instead of buying holy oil from the owner of my local bar to save an angel ghost from being killed by Heaven.” He paused, then sighed. “Those were good days.”

“It’s all your fault,” Dean said, opening his car door. “I am never visiting you again.”

“Liar,” Sam said.

The Roadhouse was still closed. Dean dug out a bobby pin from one of his pockets and jimmied the lock open. 

“Shouldn’t we at least knock?” Sam asked, disapprovingly.

“Nope,” Dean said. “The time for courtesy is over. To be honest, I’m sick to the back teeth of this crap. We’re going to do things my way this time: grab and go.”

There was a time Sam would have protested more, being a part of San Francisco’s finest and an all around giant prude, but he kept his mouth shut. 

The Roadhouse was dark, but clean. Dean could see exactly why Sam liked this place. It made Dean think of home and family and, strangely, reminded Dean of Bobby’s cluttered living room. For all that Sam was a giant hipster in college, these were their roots.

“I’ll check the backroom,” Sam muttered, slinking away. Even with his limp, he still moved like a large, silent cat.

Dean made his way to the bar, thinking maybe Sam’s friend Ellen might like to keep some angel oil close at hand just in case. There was a familiar click and a cool nozzle pressed against the back of his head.

“Don’t move, asshole,” a girl said. Dean held up his hands.

“Jo, wait!” Sam shouted from across the bar. Dean spun around and grabbed the gun, twisting it out of her hands.

“Jesus Christ,” Dean muttered, expertly dismantling the fucking shotgun she’d had pressed to his head. “You shouldn’t point this at someone unless you plan on using it.”

The girl, Jo, tilted her chin up defiantly. She was cute, with shiny blonde hair tumbling down her back and fierce, dark eyes. There was a time when Dean have turned his charm up to eleven. Now he just dropped the pieces of her gun to the floor. 

“ _You_ shouldn’t break into places,” Jo said.

“Sam Winchester,” an older lady barked, storming into the bar from the backroom. She had a shotgun too, but she lowered it when she saw who it was. “What the hell are you doing, breaking into here?”

“I told you we should have knocked,” Sam griped, then shuffled over to one of the stools. The cold didn’t do Sam’s hip any good, but his limp seemed to be way worse than normal. A little too bad, in fact. “Ellen, I’m sorry. We didn’t mean any harm to it. We’re just in a hurry and we _really_ need holy oil. Bobby said you’d have some.”

Ellen locked her gun, but didn’t put it down. “I was under the impression you thought your father was a PI and that you were a detective. What could you possibly need holy oil for?”

Dean opened his mouth to tell her that wasn’t actually any of her business, but Sam cut him off with a sharp look. He carefully slid into the stool with a small wince and Dean scoffed. Sam was _totally_ hamming it up.

“Well, you see,” Sam started, looking up at her through soulful brown eyes.

“He’s good,” Jo muttered. Sam had clearly won Ellen over, even as he fed her line after line of obvious bullshit.

“Holy oil is pretty rare,” Ellen said dubiously, after Sam finished weaving a story about a fallen angel terrorizing a small town up north and how they desperately needed a cask to save hundreds of innocent children and puppies and kittens who barfed rainbows and so could you please help out Little Orphan Annie?

“We’ll replenish it, I promise,” Sam said, earnestly. “I have a friend who has a supply, but he’s out of town.”

Ellen sighed deeply, but turned around to dig through the cabinet behind the bar. She pulled out a growler and thunked it down in front of Sam. “Not that I believe a word you’ve said,” Ellen said, gruffly. She levelled a stern look at Sam. “I’m only doing this because John once helped out my Bill. I’m hoping that last bit isn’t bullshit, at least.”

Sam had the decency to look chastised, but he grabbed the growler, anyway. “Thank you, Ellen.”

“Yeah, yeah. Get the hell out of here. And the next time I see you, this growler better be full.”

  


  


“Okay,” Dean said, once again digging through the duffel. He’d always been obsessively meticulous when it came to preparing for trips, though Sam was more used to camping trips instead of a cross-state game of Capture the Flag. “I think we’re about as ready as we can be. If we leave now, we should get to Death Valley by 7 or 8.”

“Let me grab my bag,” Sam said, pushing himself up.

“Yeah,” Dean said, distracted. “Where are my keys? I know I kept them on your girly little key holder.”

There was a jangle of keys from Sam’s bedroom. Dean froze, then shot up. “If your ghost did anything to my car—”

“I’ll talk to him,” Sam said, hurriedly, before Dean could bust out the salt. Again.

Gabriel was sitting on the edge of Sam’s bed, tossing Dean’s keys to the air and catching them in one hand. His control was getting much better; the keys didn’t pass through his hand once. Sam leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pockets.

“I don’t like this,” Gabriel said.

Sam walked into his room, putting an effort not to show his limp. Gabriel flicked a glance up at him, eyebrows lowering. Sam sighed and dropped the act, sitting on the bed beside Gabriel.

“What happened? You were so eager before.”

Gabriel caught the keys and clenched them into his fist. He was pouting, and Sam had to squash down the almost overwhelming urge to touch. Not because he didn’t think Gabriel would let him, not after that whole shower debacle, but because he physically couldn’t. 

Yet.

“Excuse me if I don’t like the idea that the only protection you’ve got is a couple of bottles of Crisco and an angel running on a back up generator,” Gabriel snapped, bouncing to his feet to pace across Sam’s bedroom floor. “If the little engine that could would just drop the protection on the apartment—”

“Not going to happen,” Sam said.

Gabriel folded his arms. “All he needs to do is slap on some wards on the walls and voila, I’m safe.”

“And if they decide to recruit some humans? No.”

“I thought you’d say that,” Gabriel said, nodding. He sounded resigned. “Since I can't stop you from being stupid, I made you something.” Gabriel indicated to Sam's dresser with a jerk of his chin. There were four beer bottles lined across the surface that had bits of plaid shoved into the top.

“You made me Molotov cocktails?” Sam asked, disbelieving. 

“Not just any Molotov cocktails. These bad boys are the deluxe edition, complete with holy oil. But as you can see, there’s a limited quantity, so use them wisely.” Gabriel flashed his grin at Sam. “Don't say I never get you anything.”

“That is so sweet. Did you have to use my shirt?”

“It died for the cause. Besides, it was douchey.”

“I liked that shirt,” Sam muttered, but picked up one of the cocktails, testing it in one hand. Hopefully they wouldn’t need them, but they wouldn’t hurt to have on hand. “Gabe, thanks.”

Gabriel eyebrows scrunched together and he turned away from Sam, walking over to the nightstand to set the keys down. Sam carefully put the cocktail back and maneuvered around the bed. He stopped behind Gabriel, close enough that if he were corporeal he would be pressed against his back. This close, he could feel the static hum of Gabriel’s skin. Sam reached around him slowly and braced his hand against the nightstand.

“I’m going to come back, you know. With your grace,” Sam murmured. And when he did, he was going to grab hold of Gabriel and never let him go again.

Gabriel closed his eyes as if he heard Sam’s unspoken promise. Then he sighed, shoulders sagging. “Stupid goddamn moose,” he grumbled, then flickered away.

  


  


It was strange, in a nostalgic way. It had been years since Dean had gone for a drive with Sammy folded into the passenger seat. Of course, they’d never had an angel lightly dozing in the back, but Castiel was so quiet it was easy to forget he was there. 

Sam was shifting in his seat, face pinched with the beginnings of discomfort. It was going to be a long drive. They would likely have to stop very couple of hours for him to stretch out. Sam really should have sat this one out, but Dean knew better than to say anything. It was way too much to ask for Sam to wait quietly at home while Dean and Castiel went after Gabriel’s grace. And if Dean had tried to sneak off without him, Sam would just go and do something stupid.

Dean didn’t feel much up to talking, too caught up in his own thoughts to participate in caring is sharing hour, but that didn’t stop Sam from twisting to face him, an hour into the drive, and saying, “What do you think about all this, Dean?”

“What part?” Dean asked, not tearing his eyes off the road. “The ghosts, the shapeshifters, or the angels? Or the fact that our dad knew about it all and didn't think that it was, you know, something we _might_ want to know about? I think,” Dean was working himself into a good rant now, gripping the steering wheel tight enough that it creaked before releasing it again, because Baby didn't need to be treated like that, “I _think_ that it all fucking sucks.”

Sam was silent, giving Dean’s rant the quiet respect it deserved.

“I mean, what the hell, Sammy? Why didn't he tell us? It's not like we were kids when he—we could have _helped_.”

Sam didn't say anything, just kept looking at Dean with those goddamn kicked puppy eyes. Dean was about to stop the goddamn car and storm away in a bitchfit more suited to the youngest Winchester when Sam said, “He wanted us to have normal lives.”

“This is normal?” Dean demanded, jerking his hand around in a way that encompassed him, Sam, and the now-awake angel in the back. “Newsflash: We _don't_ have normal lives. If he told us, he could prepared us!”

It was a little surreal, being the one to question their father. Sam was the one who normally pushed, and questioned, and rebelled. Dean had been nothing less than the perfect son, never disobeying, always watching over Sam. Dean felt—betrayed. Like their dad didn’t think he could be trusted.

He sagged further in his seat with a quietly hissed, “Fuck.”

“Dean—”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

“Fine,” Sam snapped, because he was just as incapable of handling his emotions as Dean was, no matter how often he wanted to talk about them.

Dean sighed, deflating with one long exhale. It wasn't Sam's fault their dad had decided to keep them in the dark. “Look, Sammy, just—not right now, okay? Give me some time to digest.”

Sam’s expression remained mulish for all of five terrible seconds, before he sank back in his seat and nodded. “Alright. But don’t think I’m letting you off that easy, dude.”

“Of course not,” Dean sighed.

The road stretched straight and flat for miles before disappearing into a mountainside scarred with age and wind. Small brush blanketed the white sand on either side of the road. Dean expected hot air to seep in through the windows and bake them, but in reality it was just as cold as Northern California. He was glad he took the added precaution of packing warmer clothing.

An hour later, Dean pulled into the empty parking lot of a Western style hotel with a sign in the front declaring it the Stovepipe Wells General Store. Every building had similar signs: Room Registration, Dining Hall, Gift shop.

“Quaint,” Dean said.

“I’ll get the room,” Sam said, quickly sliding out of the car. The Impala rocked when he leaned heavily against the side, slowly stretching out his injured leg. Dammit. Dean _knew_ his leg had been bothering him. Not that he ever complained. Sometimes, Dean really hated the ‘shut up and suck it up’ mentality they’d been raised with.

He gave Sam the privacy to unlock his muscles, because contrary to what some people might say, he actually was a good brother, then followed him out. He tapped on the window Castiel was leaning against. “You coming?”

Castiel said nothing. Dean shrugged and made his way around the car and leaned against the trunk, tilting his head back. Even with the light of the hotel polluting the immediate area, there were more stars spilled across the sky than he had ever seen. The sky was so cluttered that it took him a minute to find Orion’s Belt, the only constellation he knew at a glance.

“Dean.”

“Jesus Christ!” Dean yelped, jumping about a foot in the air and whirling around. “Did you even use the door?”

“No.” Castiel tilted his head curiously, hands in the pockets of his trenchcoat. Dean clutched at his chest, heart beating a furious staccato against his ribs.

“You scared the hell out of me.”

“I apologize.”

Dean realized that this was the first time he and Castiel had been alone together since the shapeshifter. Abruptly, he felt all the awkwardness he should have the morning after. Dean had always gravitated towards the types of girls who knew exactly what they were getting into when they slept with him: quick hookups with absolutely no commitments. This was different.

“Dean, perhaps this isn’t the best time, but—” Castiel said, falteringly, and fuck, Castiel was going to break it off with him. He probably remembered that he was an Angel of the Lord and wanted nothing to do with someone like Dean. Or maybe he realized humans didn’t actually do it for him, and he was planning on flitting back to Heaven after helping his brother out to find an angel more suited to his holy tastes. Or maybe he just didn’t like Dean.

“Hey, woah,” Dean said, quickly. He held up a hand. If Castiel gave Dean the whole ‘it’s not me, it’s you’ speech, something in Dean wasn’t going to make it out completely intact. “It’s cool, I get it. You don’t have to say anything, Castiel.”

Castiel shoulders relaxed. “I am glad.”

Dean grimaced and dropped his eyes to the side. Somehow, without Dean even realizing it, Castiel had wormed his way in deep enough that it hurt like a bitch when he decided to end it.

“Hey, Dean—oh,” Sam said. “Hey Cas.” Sam paused, then cleared his throat. “Should I have gotten an extra room?”

“Yes,” Cas said. Dean could feel him looking at him, but he didn’t lift his head. God, he couldn’t even stand being in the same room as—

“Dean and I will get an extra room,” Castiel said. Dean’s head whipped up.

“Okay, way more information than I ever needed to know,” Sam said, wincing.

“We will only require one bed,” Castiel continued.

“Oh my God, _stop_ ,” Sam said, covering his face with one hand. “And stop looking at him like that, Dean, I’m _right here_.”

“I would advise you take your bags to your room, Sam,” Castiel said.

“I hate you guys so much,” Sam bitched, but dutifully grabbed his bags and hurried away. Just in time, too, because Dean had wrapped Castiel’s tie around his hand and was yanking him forward.

  


  


“Oh wow, I didn’t think that would work.”

Sam blinked his eyes open to billions of stars blanketing a bruised-black sky. He sat up, breath catching in his throat. The Milky Way was a dusty, glowing purple wound sprawled over him, clearer than it had any right to be without a telescope.

Gabriel was sitting cross-legged on the asphalt beside him, lips quirked up into a smile a shade too soft. Apparently, they were in the middle of the road. Sam wasn’t worried.

“Gabriel?” Sam asked, drawing his own legs up. He reached out instinctively, then jerked back when his hand encountered solid warmth. He cautiously let his hand settle on Gabriel’s shoulder. “Dreaming, then.”

“Apparently I have good range,” Gabriel said, leaning into his touch. Sam slid his hand down until he had his hand loosely circling his wrist. Gabriel shivered slightly, but didn’t pull away.

“This is incredible,” Sam said, tilting his head up again.

“You were missing out on a pretty spectacular view,” Gabriel agreed, then flopped back down onto the road, folding one arm behind his head. A second later, Sam followed, mimicking his position. It wasn’t cold; in fact, Sam felt bundled up and warm as if he were still in bed, but Gabriel curled up closer beside him. Sam didn't let go of his wrist.

“I’ve been wondering,” Sam said, sliding his thumb across the fragile bones on Gabriel’s wrist. “Why do you think you stopped Michael and Lucifer? Didn’t you want Paradise?”

Gabriel considered the stars. His eyes were distant, and Sam wondered if he was lost in some memory. “It’s because I like you guys.”

Sam puzzled over that, and as if reading his mind, Gabriel made a rude noise and elbowed him on the side. “Not you specifically, you mook. Humans. Heaven’s idea of Paradise is such a bore. Only those lunkheads upstairs would think a bunch of blissed out meatbags could be Paradise.”

“Excuse you, I’m one of those meatbags,” Sam said.

“Exactly. Can you imagine? No more free will? Bo-oring. Besides,” Gabriel suddenly looked sad and weary, soft brown eyes too old for his human body. “I didn’t like the idea of my brothers killing each other. I thought it would be best if they cooled their heels in the pit for a couple of centuries. It just figures I’d get shish kabobed in the process.”

“You remember then?” Sam asked.

“I remember enough.” Gabriel’s voice was unfathomable, hurt in a way Sam couldn’t understand, but final in a way that he could.

They watched the stars in silence. The gravel shifted as Gabriel moved closer, pressing against Sam’s side. Sam finally let go of his wrist to wrap his arm around him, and Gabriel dropped his head onto Sam’s shoulder, too hard to be strictly sweet. He wondered if this was Gabriel’s silent way of asking for comfort.

“We’re heading to the oasis first thing tomorrow morning,” Sam said, watching as meteors darted from one star to another, before flickering out.

Gabriel didn’t say anything. Sam looked down at him. He was staring up at the stars, expression a blank mask, except his eyebrows were a straight slash over his eyes. “You’re so sure you’re going to find my grace,” Gabriel said. “What if it's not there anymore? We don’t even know where the remaining pieces are.”

Sam shrugged. “I’ll find it. I’m a detective, after all.”

“And what if the other pieces are spread across the planet?” Gabriel asked, pushing himself up so that he could frown down at Sam, upside down. “What if my grace is in Australia? Zimbabwe? Or some war torn country?”

“So I’ll travel,” Sam said, peering back up at Gabriel. “Or Cas will get it, if I can’t. Besides, you only need one piece. You’ll regenerate the rest on your own.”

Gabriel clenched his hands on the road, small bits of gravel grating against the asphalt. “I _hope_ ,” Gabriel said, on a breath.

Sam reached up, cupping the side of Gabriel’s face. He slid one thumb across his cheekbone, staring up into his eyes. “I’ll get your grace back. Have some faith,” Sam said, seriously.

Gabriel’s eyes were like warm honey, and his breath ghosted across Sam’s lips when he leaned down. 

Outside, a car honked and someone laughed drunkenly. Sam’s eyes snapped open to the stained ceiling of the hotel room. 

“Fuck!” Sam shouted, slamming both his fists onto the bed.

  
  
[Under the Milky Way](http://captain-d-leet.deviantart.com/art/State-of-Disgrace-GBB2016-Under-the-Milky-Way-619900056) by [captain_d_leet](http://captain-d-leet.tumblr.com)

  


  


“Is Sam unwell?” Castiel murmured to Dean over breakfast the next morning.

Sam was hunched over his plate of bacon and eggs, expression a black thundercloud. He was gripping his butter knife like it a weapon.

“Uh, Sammy? You okay, buddy?” Dean asked, cautiously.

“Yes,” Sam snapped, stabbing viciously into his egg.

“I don’t believe he is telling the truth,” Castiel whispered.

Dean grinned fondly in spite of himself and received an especially epic bitchface from Sam in response. Oka-ay. “I think it’s his time of the month.”

Castiel’s eyebrows scrunched together. “I don’t understand that reference.”

Dean laughed, nudging Castiel with his elbow. He was having a _great_ day. Death Valley was _great_.

Sam’s fork and knife clattered back to his plate. “Can we go now?”

He’d barely touched his breakfast. Dean frowned down at his own plate. He’d only gotten through half of his stack of pancakes. “What’s the hurry?”

“I just—” His eyes flicked between Dean and Castiel, before they settled on Dean’s face. “Please?”

Dean sighed. He could grab a couple of granola bars from the General Store. “Sure, Sammy. Let’s go.”


	11. Chapter 11

A blue-green waterfall spilled over the side of a red cliff, crashing a hundred feet into a clear lake. Smaller waterfalls tumbled over the limestone edge and into a surrounding blue pools. There were cheerfully bright green trees ringing the waterfalls, and under one of the trees were Sam, Dean, and Castiel, staring at the oasis in silent awe. It was startlingly beautiful. Totally worth the two mile hike.

“Wow,” Dean breathed.

“It’s magnificent,” Castiel agreed.

Sam snapped a picture. Both Dean and Castiel looked at him disapprovingly.

“What?” Sam asked, opening a new text. “Gabriel would want to see this.”

Sure enough, less than a minute after he sent the picture, Sam’s phone buzzed with a new text. He grinned helplessly at it.

**Gabriel: I am SO awesome holy shit**

Dean snorted and shook his head, turning to Castiel. “So? Is it here?”

“Yes,” Castiel said. He drew the vial out from under his shirt and stepped over to the pool. “You may want to close your eyes. It will be bright.”

It was bright, but Sam couldn’t tear his eyes away as a stream of white light that hesitantly flowed up from the pool, from the waterfall, and from the trees to swell up around Castiel curiously, then playfully, ruffling through his hair with a burst of affection. Eventually, it dutifully swirled into the vial. Castiel closed the cap, smiling down at the grace.

The oasis was still breathtakingly beautiful, but there was something—less about it. Sam didn’t care. He had his eyes set on the vial. “That’s it? That’s his grace?”

“Yes,” Castiel said, handing the vial to Sam.

Sam cradled it between his hands, feeling suddenly huge and clumsy. The white light swirled behind the glass, an entire universe trapped in a small glass vial. Sam closed his eyes. He felt a little breathless, a little sad.

“Let’s go back,” he said.

  


  


There was another car pulled off on the side of the road next to the Impala. It was a little cold for swimming, but Gabriel’s oasis was exactly the type of thing adventurers would seek out. 

Really, Dean shouldn't have been surprised when Ezra stepped around the back of the car, followed by two goons in three piece suits. It wasn't like things were ever simple for them. He should have expected it.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Sam said.

“Thank you for finding Gabriel’s grace for us, brother,” Ezra said, smiling a snake’s grin.

Sam fell back a step behind Dean, edging behind the Impala. Dean slid one hand slowly into his pocket.

“Don’t do this, Ezra,” Castiel pleaded. “Don’t you see? Metatron is destroying Heaven—”

“Metatron is making Heaven better by ridding it of all you sanctimonious pricks,” Ezra snarled, face twisting into an ugly sneer. Just as quickly, the smile slipped back into place and he rolled his shoulders in an easy shrug. “Anyway. We’ll be taking Gabriel’s grace, now.”

A wicked blade dropped out from Castiel’s sleeve and he wrapped his hand around the grip. Ezra laughed, shaking his head. “Oh, Castiel. We all know how weak you are. Spread a little thin to be threatening me, don’t you think?”

Castiel’s foot slid back on the gravel. He lunged forward, trenchcoat flying out behind him and swung his blade back. Ezra sprang up to meet him, slamming his fist up and into his sternum before he could bring the blade down into Ezra’s face. The blow sent him staggering back.

“It's useless, Castiel. You may as well just give up,” Ezra taunted. “You might have a piece of Gabriel's grace, but once we take it from you, it's over.”

“What do you mean?” Castiel demanded. Blood was trickling out of the corner of his mouth and a new gash near his hairline, but he didn’t seem bothered.

“Metatron has the rest of his grace,” Ezra sneered.

Castiel didn’t answer verbally, but the low hiss of air between his teeth was a pretty good indicator that he hadn’t known that. Dean didn't have time to worry about him; a blink, and there was a huge, mean looking dude swinging back one sledgehammer-sized fist. He just managed to prevent his head being removed by diving to the left, crashing into the Impala’s side. The blow shattered the window by his head.

“Oh you are so dead,” Dean snarled, punching the angel in the jaw. 

The angel didn't even flinch. Dean, on the other hand, hopped away, shaking his hand out. Jesus Christ, it was like hitting an actual man of steel.

Behind him, Sam let out a strangled yelp. Dean whipped around in time to see the other angel slash a wicked looking blade up and Sam stagger back, clutching his arm.

“Sam!” Dean shouted.

It wasn't the smartest thing he could have done, taking his eyes off his own attacker. The angel, probably not used to being ignored, wrapped his hand around Dean’s upper arm. There was a wrenching feeling followed by a horrible _pop!_ and he tried to yank his arm away. That was when the pain hit. He staggered to his knees, howling when the guy didn't fucking _let go_ and his arm was going to was going to be torn off.

"De—" Castiel shouted, but he was cut off by an ominous sounding crack.

God, fuck this. Dean scrabbled at his pocket and yanked out his key, barely even glancing at Sam to make sure he was behind the Impala before he shouted, "Catch!" and flung the keys. It went a little wide, but Sam just reached out one of his freakishly long arms to snag it out of the air. He flung the the trunk open.

The angel punched him again for his efforts, which hurt like a _mother_.

“You stupid son of a bitch,” Dean growled. The bastard still had a crushing grip on his arm. His bones felt fragile, like they were ready to buckle and snap if the angel just flicked his wrist. His entire left arm was going to be useless for months, if he wasn’t made dead.

He still had one good arm, though, and he used that one to rip the gun out of his hip holster and shoot the asshole in the stomach. The goon hissed and fell back, clutching the wound in surprise. “Stings, huh?” Dean said, grinning. “They were soaked in holy oil. It shouldn’t kill you, but it’ll hurt like a bitch.”

“I'll kill you, you worthless mud monkey,” the angel snarled. 

It was a glorious moment, watching Sam hurl the Molotov cocktail with perfect accuracy into the back of that douchebag’s head. The angel flung his head back and screamed, flames engulfing his entire body. In a second, he had completely burned up.

Castiel took that moment to shove his blade through Ezra’s neck. Ezra’s mouth dropped open in surprise and things got really bright for a second, before he collapsed onto the road. Black scorch marks unfurled under his back, the shadowy impression of—wings, shit.

The other goon staggered back, eyes flicking between Sam’s Molotov cocktail and Castiel’s angel blade.

“Don’t kill him,” Castiel instructed, though he didn’t put his angel blade away.

Sam dutifully lowered his second Molotov cocktail and lighter, but Dean kept his gun leveled at the angel’s head. His bullets wouldn’t kill him, but they’d slow him down if he tried to do anything stupid.

“Gadreel,” Castiel said, lowly. “You must know that what Metatron is doing is wrong. He is destroying our home.”

“I haven't been allowed back home for a very long time, brother,” Gadreel said, voice a painful mix of weariness and longing. “Metatron has made it possible for me return. I owe him.”

“How much?” Castiel asked. “You owe him the lives of others? How many of our brothers and sisters has he made you kill on his whim?”

Gadreel dropped his eyes.

“Help us,” Castiel pleaded. “With Gabriel, we can return Heaven to how it once was. But we need his grace.”

That had clearly been the wrong thing to say. Gadreel’s lip curled. “You mean help the one who ruined our chance at Paradise? _My_ chance to redeem myself?”

Castiel grimaced slightly. “Earth will never again be Eden. You cannot go back, and you will _never_ redeem yourself by following Metatron.”

“I’m done listening to you,” Gadreel said, then turned away and, with the sound of fluttering wings, disappeared.

“That went well,” Sam sighed, slumping against the car. He was clutching a fresh cut on his arm, blood seeping between his fingers.

“Who was that?” Dean said, finally lowering his gun. He was shaking slightly from a mix of fear and adrenaline. The dull pain in his left arm was steadily increasing to a breathtaking agony.

“He was once the guardian of Eden,” Castiel said. “He was the one who let in the serpent.”

Dean winced. “That has to look bad on his resume.”

“Let's get back to the hotel,” Sam said, clutching his arm. “I think you might need to stitch me up, Dean.”

“Great,” Dean sighed.

“Oh, I'm so sorry I have to inconvenience you,” Sam snapped. Pain made Sam bitchy. “Feel free to run into a wall to take care of that dislocated shoulder.”

“Fine, fine,” Dean relented. “Get in the car. And don’t you dare bleed on the upholstery.”

  


  


When Dean was fourteen and Sam was ten, Sam had sliced open his hand while trying to gut a fish. Instead of calling off the backpacking trip and rushing his son to a hospital like a normal, sane father, John had Dean stitch Sam’s hand up using needle and a fishing line. It had been one of the most traumatizing experiences in both Sam and Dean’s lives, and the day Sam had never looked at John the same after that.

As Sam took a long swig of Jameson while Dean took needle to skin, Dean was, for once, grateful that their father had forced them to learn advanced first aid, even though his methods were more than a little terrifying.

“Fuck,” Sam hissed, clenching his eyes shut.

Dean swallowed convulsively. He didn't have a problem with blood, but usually when he saw it, he wasn't threading someone back together.

“You're okay,” Dean breathed, half to himself. Sam didn't respond, just panted heavily through his nose. “We’ll stop by the nearest hospital on the way home. You're fine; it's just a scratch.”

He continued the stream of useless comfort as he concentrated on making the stitches as neat as possible. Castiel was slumped on the table next to him, eyes heavy but with strict instructions not to pass out. He was making an effort, but he looked like he was losing that battle. That blow he’d taken across the back of his head would have killed a normal human.

Dean was just knotting the thread when his phone buzzed with an incoming call. He grabbed it from the pile of towels and frowned down at the screen, not recognizing the number.

“Who is it?” Sam asked. His voice was tight from pain.

“Probably just some solicitor,” Dean said, pressing a button to send the call to voicemail. He left a smear of Sam's blood on the screen.

The phone began to ring.

“What the hell,” Dean said, then nearly dropped the damn thing when it picked up on its own, automatically putting itself on speaker. For a moment he thought it was Gabriel, playing another one of his stupid pranks on them.

“Dean Winchester,” the voice on the other line said. It wasn’t one Dean recognized. “You have something I want.”

Castiel had had lifted his head and was staring at the phone like it had transformed into a snake: a mix of surprise and disgust. “Metatron,” he spat.

“Hello, brother,” Metatron said sweetly. “It’s been a long time since we’ve spoken.”

Dean shook his head, mouthing ‘douchebag’ to Sam. Sam nodded in agreement. Dean had never been the religious type, but he hadn't expected angels to be such giant dickheads. Except for Castiel. Castiel was good. 

“Why are you calling?” Castiel demanded. 

“Aw, Castiel, is that any way to speak to your brother?” Metatron asked, tutting disapprovingly. Dean really wanted to punch the guy. “You have something I want.”

“Hey, dickhead,” Sam snapped. “Here’s an idea: Go fuck yourself.”

Dean snorted. Sam usually had the mouth of a southern baptist grandmother, but he became a catty bitch when he was in pain.

“Sorry, maybe I didn’t make myself clear,” Metatron said, voice hardening. “If you don’t hand over Gabriel’s grace, I’ll give San Francisco the Oppenheimer treatment.”

The room went silent. Dean glanced up at Sam, who was staring back at him with wide eyed horror. The small vial holding Gabriel’s swirly, happy grace hung over Sam’s shirt. Dean’s gaze shifted to Castiel. Castiel looked—well, Castiel looked really fucking pissed off, actually.

“If you think we'd just—” Sam started.

“Okay,” Dean interrupted. “We’ll give it to you.”

Predictably, Sam exploded into shouted protests. Dean quickly put his hand to the retriever and shook his head roughly: Not now, Sammy.

“I knew you’d see it my way,” Metatron said, voice back to its sweet cheerfulness. “Meet me in Paradise, Nevada tonight at 9. For every minute you're late, another street in San Francisco will be—lost.”

The line cut out before they could respond. As soon as the call ended, Sam whirled on Dean eyes flashing. “What the hell! I can't believe you, Dean!”

“Relax, Samantha,” Dean said, rolling his eyes. 

“I don't believe it's Dean’s intention to actually give Gabriel's grace to Metatron,” Castiel explained. It was unnerving how someone he'd known for such a short period of time could understand his motives better than Sam had been able to. “Correct me if I'm wrong, Dean, but you wish to use Gabriel's grace as bait.”

Dean nodded, ignoring as Sam's expression became stormier by the second.

“Does _Gabriel_ get any say in this?” Sam said, folding his arms, and then wincing and dropping them again when his new stitches tugged painfully.

“No,” Dean said, grimly. “I don’t like this any more than you do, Sammy, but we’re not going to let that asshole destroy San Francisco.” Sam opened his mouth to protest, but Dean cut him off by swiftly lifting his hand. “We’re not going to just hand it over to him, either. Obviously. We’ll just have to think of a different plan.”

Sam still looked like he wanted to protest, but then he snapped his teeth shut and slumped into himself. Dean kept his gaze steady and unblinking, although his stomach rolled with guilt. This was the right thing to do. He knew it, and Sam would know it too, if he could just focus on anything but Gabriel for longer than ten minutes.

Sam stalked over to one of the beds and dropped heavily onto the edge. “Yeah. I know.” He scrubbed his hand through his hair, face twisting in anger. “I don’t like it.”

Dean sighed, using his good arm to push himself to his feet. He strode across the room to clap Sam on the shoulder. “I know, dude. We’re still going to get Gabriel’s grace back to him. Just think of this as a detour.”

Sam snorted and Dean shook his shoulder, then made his way across the room where Castiel had slumped back down over the table, looking for all the world like he was drunk. Dean smiled fondly down at him. “Come on, dude. Let’s get our stuff.”

Castiel’s bleary eyes focused on Dean, and he nodded. He staggered to his feet and Dean reached over to steady him, pulling one of Castiel’s arms over his shoulders. Dean didn’t know how strong angels were supposed to be, but he had a feeling Castiel shouldn't be this weak, for all that he could skewer shapeshifters with butter knives. It made him worry.

“Hey, Cas?” Sam asked before Castiel and Dean could leave. “Do you have enough juice to knock me out?”

Castiel glanced at Dean, expression crumpling in confusion. “I—believe so. Why?”

“I want to talk to Gabriel.”

Castiel's eyebrows flew up. “Gabriel has been visiting your dreams?”

“He doesn't do it every night,” Sam said, defensively. Probably because he realized how creepy that sounded. “Usually only when I'm having a nightm—” He cut himself off, embarrassed. Then he rolled his eyes. “Not that sticking me in a bull run with minotaurs is much better.”

“ _What_?” Dean demanded.

“It's cool!” Sam said, hastily. “The minotaurs bought us beer after.”

“I will do as you ask,” Castiel said as Dean tried to wrap his mind around what Sam had just said.

“Thanks,” Sam said. He looked wiped out and still a little ashen from the stitches. Castiel shuffled back across the room, clearly worn out himself, and placed two fingers on Sam’s forehead.

Sam sank back into the pillows.

Castiel examined his face for a moment, before turning back to Dean. “We should leave soon.”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Come on. Let’s get our stuff.”


	12. Chapter 12

When Sam opened his eyes again, he was still sprawled out of the bed in the hotel. He tensed up, surprised, then settled back into the bed with a sigh. It didn’t work. Maybe he could just text Gabriel what they needed to do—

Gabriel's head popped into view, upside down. “Hiya, Sammy.”

Sam jolted in surprise. He glared up at Gabriel. “Don't do that.”

The bed bounced a bit as Gabriel dropped onto the mattress, closer than should have been comfortable. Sam had to resist the urge to pull him even closer. Warm fingers slid over Sam’s bicep, just over his injury. Sam shivered.

“They hurt you,” Gabriel said, lowly. 

“It’s just a scratch,” Sam said, neglecting to mention he’d almost passed out when Dean stitched him back up. 

Gabriel glared down at the stitches. “I should have been there.”

Sam didn’t know what Gabriel thought he could do as a ghost, but all he said was, “You will be, soon.”

“Does that mean you got it?” Gabriel asked, eyes flying up to Sam’s face. They burned with equal parts excitement and apprehension. It made Sam's insides clench up in guilt and he turned away to glare up at the ceiling, jaw clenching.

“It wasn't there,” Gabriel bit out, drawing away from Sam slightly.

“It was,” Sam said, not looking away from the ceiling. “We got it.”

Gabriel said nothing. When Sam looked at him, he was sitting unnaturally still, eyes intent. “But?”

“Your douchey brother threatened to destroy all of San Francisco if we don't give it to him.”

Gabriel was still oddly quiet, not looking away from Sam, not even blinking. 

“We're not going to give it to him,” Sam snapped. Even though Gabriel hadn't said anything, he could practically hear what he was thinking: _Fucking untrustworthy humans, I was so_ close. “But we need to stop him.”

“What are you going to do?” Gabriel asked, voice flat.

“Um.” They hadn’t really discussed their exact plans, but Sam was sure they would figure something out. Dean and Castiel were probably already plotting. “We’re going to meet him in Nevada.”

“If you bring my grace here first—”

“We don’t have time,” Sam said, closing his eyes. “For every minute we’re late, he’s going to destroy another part of San Francisco.”

The bed shifted as Gabriel got up. Sam grimaced. He wondered if Gabriel thought they were choosing to save the people in San Francisco instead of him. He didn’t actually know the real Gabriel—hell, _Gabriel_ didn’t know Gabriel—but apparently, most angels had a pragmatic view about the continued survival of the human species. What did a couple hundred human lives mean to an angel? 

“So, what, you’re just going to stroll into what is obviously a _giant freakin’ trap_ with nothing but a couple poprocks and a half-dead angel for protection?” 

Sam pushed himself up. He hadn’t expected that at all. Gabriel was pacing in front of the foot of the bed, hands clenching and unclenching into fists.

“We have to,” Sam said, calmly. “If we don’t, hundreds of thousands of people will die—”

“And that’s somehow your responsibility to stop?” Gabriel demanded.

“Well,” Sam said, slowly. He thought the answer was pretty obvious. “Yes.”

“I don’t get it!” Gabriel shouted. Sam got up off the bed. The windows and dresser were trembling ominously. “Why do you keep throwing yourself headfirst into danger?”

“Gabriel—”

“Do you honestly think Metatron’s going to just sit back and let you kill him? He’s the ruler of Heaven! You bet your ass he’s going to have something nasty waiting for you in Nevada.”

“We’ll be fine,” Sam said, gently, paradoxically becoming calmer as Gabriel’s wrath grew. He moved closer to Gabriel, which might have been suicidal considering how furious he was. “It’s not like we’re going in blind.”

“No, idiot, you're just going up against the entire host,” Gabriel said, scathingly, and grabbed the front of Sam's shirt. “If you die—Sam, I _can’t_ —”

Sam cupped Gabriel's face with both his hands and kissed him hard, swallowing down his distress. Gabriel gasped, a small, hurt intake of breath, then reached up to grab Sam's hair in both his hands.

Gabriel’s lips were soft and warm and felt so fucking _real_ that Sam groaned into the kiss, urgent. He relished how the rough strands of his sideburns contrasted with his silky hair under his fingers, the warm slide of his tongue, the faint, earthy taste of black licorice. It made Sam press closer, so blindingly desperate to physically touch, to finally _feel_ Gabriel, the way he trembled under Sam's fingers and grasped Sam’s arms in a too-tight grip.

Gabriel stumbled back, and suddenly they were tumbling down and onto the bed, though it was softer than he remembered, and much larger. Not that Sam was in the mindset to care, being far more interested in the slick warmth of Gabriel’s tongue sliding against his own.

Sam pulled back, looking seriously down at Gabriel. Gabriel's hair was fanned out in a halo around his head. “When you get your grace back, I'm going to kiss you _so much_ outside of my dreams.”

Gabriel glared at him. “You're such a fucking sap, you know that?”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“You are also a stupid, self-sacrificing idiot,” Gabriel snapped, but he also lunged up to kiss Sam repeatedly, hands fisted into his shirt.

“If you can’t do it without me, what makes you think I can do it without you?”

Gabriel stared up at him, eyes wide and a little shocky. “ _Sap_ ,” he said, and Sam’s laugh was swallowed up by Gabriel’s insistent mouth.

Gabriel grappled with the front of Sam’s shirt, like he was as desperate to touch Sam as Sam was to touch him. Strong, soft fingers curled gently over his clavicle, and Sam shuddered. Each touch burned into him, like it was brand-new, like he had never been touched before.

“Gabriel,” Sam murmured, bracing his hands on either side of Gabriel’s face. “I want—”

“ _Please_ ,” Gabriel gasped.

Sam hadn’t had sex since he was shot; that smooth roll of the hips was out of the question when you’d taken a bullet to one just months ago. Here, though, here he had no problems, and he ground his hips down in response to Gabriel’s plea instinctively and without the normal accompanied throbbing pain. They both gasped at the contact, Gabriel’s hands tangling in Sam’s shirt like he needed to hold on.

Sam slid down, shoving Gabriel’s shirt up impatiently, and Gabriel pulled it over his head in one smooth motion. He pressed damp, open mouth kisses to the soft skin of his stomach, nuzzling into the fine hair trailing under his belly button. Gabriel’s skin was warm and soft under his lips, and Sam dragged a long slick stripe up his belly, and Gabriel dug his fingers into Sam’s shoulders, hard enough to bruise.

“Sam,” Gabriel growled, like an order. He slid his hands up to tangle his fingers into his hair, but let go to slide them over Sam’s scalp, a curious exploration. Sam tilted his face up as Gabriel’s fingers caressed over the shells his ears and down the dips of his cheekbones to trail a line across to his lower lip. Sam nipped the tip of his finger lightly, then sucked it in.

“Fuck,” Gabriel groaned, sliding his thumb across Sam’s lower lip. “I have wanted to touch you for so long.”

“God, Gabriel, you have no idea what you do to me,” Sam said, then ducked down to nip at the soft skin under Gabriel’s belly button, startling a small huff of laughter out of him.

“Yeah? Tell me,” Gabriel said, breathless.

Sam chuckled against his stomach, fingers working at Gabriel’s jeans. “You want me to flatter you instead of putting my mouth to better use?”

Gabriel's fingers spasmed slightly against the sides of Sam's face. “You pose a very convincing argument.”

It was less intimidating than he’d thought it’d be, having a dick this close to his face. He’d never actually done this with another man, but he knew what liked, and when he wrapped his fingers around Gabriel’s cock for the first time, Gabriel growled out a sound that bit off into a short whine. Sam licked a broad, wet stripe up the underside of his dick until the tip of his tongue just barely slid over his head, before abruptly sliding as much of him as he could fit into his mouth in one go.

Sam had enough presence of mind to be impressed at the creativity and volume of Gabriel’s curses. 

Gabriel grabbed his hair into two fistfuls, but didn’t pull. His filthy curses were interrupted by even filthier groans as Sam pulled back slowly. He barely knew what he was doing: he was sloppy, and he probably used too much teeth, but Gabriel was rolling up into his mouth and Sam fucking _loved_ it, loved the way Gabriel was slowly falling apart under his hands.

“Sam Sam Sam,” Gabriel gasped the litany, tone this side of reverent. 

Sam scrambled one hand against the nightstand and was gratified when his knuckles bumped against a cool bottle sitting just next to the alarm clock. There was something to be said about sex in dreams. He spilled too much lube over his fingers, making a mess of the sheets. Since this was, technically, a dream, he barely spared a thought for it as he slid one finger down the cleft of Gabriel’s ass. Gabriel fingers tightening in his hair as Sam pressed in.

“—gonna ride you,” Gabriel slurred, decisively, and Sam shoved his fingers in deeper, harder, not as controlled as he’d like to be. “You’d like that, right—if I just fucked myself open on your cock—”

Sam had to let go of the base of Gabriel’s dick to press his own hand against the bulge in his jeans, closing his eyes. He panted damp breaths against the juncture of Gabriel’s hip, turning to press his lips into Gabriel’s inner thigh and said, “You’re going to kill me.”

Strong hands gripped him by his shoulders and Sam suddenly found himself on his back. Gabriel swung a leg over to straddle his hips, eyes were intent and unblinking, and for the first time Sam could actually see that Gabriel was something other than human. He struggled with the button on Sam’s jeans, cursing under his breath, and then just ripped them open and shoved them down his hips. 

“You're wearing too much—stupid—clothing,” Gabriel bit out, tugging impatiently at Sam's shirt. Sam pulled it over his head before Gabriel could tear that off him, too.

For a moment Gabriel just stared down at him, lips slightly parted and eyes half-lidded. Sam shifted uncomfortably, and his hand itched to cover the starburst scar on his left hip, but Gabriel reached down to run unsteady fingers down Sam's abs, hissing between his teeth when Sam’s muscles jumped at the caress.

“Yeah,” Gabriel said, a little breathless. “I can work with this.”

Sam grabbed Gabriel’s hips as Gabriel spilled more lube over his hands, slicking Sam up with slow, tortuous strokes, grip wet and tight and so hot. Sam’s head dropped back to the pillow and he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to keep himself from doing something unforgivable like coming before they even got to the good part.

“Ready?” Gabriel asked, but before Sam could answer, he slid down on Sam’s cock. The sudden, slick heat was too fucking much, like sinking into a _supernova_. Sam’s eyes snapped open and he gasped, bucking up. Gabriel tightened his knees around Sam’s hips and grinned a little wildly. He wiggled a little to adjust. Sam's eyes rolled back in his head. “Nuh-uh, cowboy, this is my ride.”

Gabriel was fucking _obscene_ , splaying one hand flat on Sam’s stomach as he rolled his hips expertly. His eyes were half-lidded, predatory, _hungry_ , as he fucked himself down on Sam’s cock with long, sure strokes. Sam was trapped, completely at his mercy. His hands dropped from Gabriel’s hips to twist helplessly into the sheets. For all that he was the one with his cock up Gabriel’s ass, Sam was the one who submitted completely, head dropping back into the pillows, vision whiting out every time Gabriel sank down on him.

“Yeah, Sam,” Gabriel panted, as Sam rolled his hips up to meet Gabriel’s slow strokes. It was too good, too fucking good, and it was making Sam _insane_. “Fucking—amazing—”

“ _Gabriel_.” He slid his hands up Gabriel’s back, digging his fingers in the dip of his spine when Gabriel decided to fucking finally pick up speed, strong thighs flexing as he fucked himself down on Sam’s dick, fingers digging into Sam’s stomach. 

Sam’s orgasm was torn out of him in long, desperate pulses as his hands flew up to scrabble uselessly down Gabriel’s back. When Sam raked his fingers in hard lines down his shoulder blades, Gabriel jerked forward, as if stunned, and his rhythm became uncontrolled, graceless. His fingers dug into Sam’s stomach almost painfully when he followed Sam over the edge, coming in hot white stripes over Sam’s stomach without even being touched.

“Fuck,” Gabriel said, after several moments where they just tried to catch their breaths.

“Yeah,” Sam agreed, still feeling a little shocked.

“I am suddenly so much less stressed,” Gabriel said, like it was a revelation.

Sam laughed, bright and obscene. He pulled Gabriel closer, ignoring the mess that was sticky between them. Whatever, they were in a dream.

“I still don't like it,” Gabriel grumbled into Sam's bare chest. Sam couldn't see his expression, but he could picture the tight lines around Gabriel's eyes.

Sam pressed his lips into Gabriel's hair, inhaling the faint scent of black licorice. He slid his hands up Gabriel's bare back to his shoulder blades. Gabriel shivered and curled in closer, as if he could sink into Sam.

“I know.” 

“You're gonna do it anyway though.”

“Yeah.” Sam reached up to slide his fingers through Gabriel's hair. It was as silky as it looked. “I'm going to have to go soon.”

“You are seriously the worst,” Gabriel said, but he slid up Sam's body, pressing his lips against the corner of Sam's mouth.

“You will come back,” Gabriel ordered against Sam's lips.

When Sam opened his eyes, he was alone in the room.

  


  


Paradise, Nevada was an unincorporated city just south of Las Vegas. The house Metatron wanted them to meet in looked recently abandoned, like the previous inhabitants had picked up and left in the middle of dinner. Dean didn't like the implications of that.

Dean pulled the Impala behind a pickup truck in the driveway, killing the engine. No one got out of the car.

“He’s going to be here in ten minutes,” Sam said. Sam had been disturbingly happy before they left the hotel in a way Dean _really_ didn't want to think about; now, though, his expression was grim. Sam twisted around so that he was facing Castiel, who sat rigidly in the back seat. “Cas, what happens if we kill him? Will it start a war?”

“Metatron does not have enough allies for a true war,” Castiel said. “But Gabriel will definitely need to restore order.”

Dean snorted. Gabriel? Restore order? When he _thrived_ on chaos? Despite his infatuation, even Sam looked enormously skeptical. “Uh huh. Let's get this show on the road.”

They snuck around the back of the house and through the sliding door that led to the porch. The house was dark and empty, with a half-eaten dinner spread out of the kitchen table. Goddamn douchebag angels. They probably killed the entire family. And for what? Some petty-ass pissing match?

There was a fluttering sound that was becoming all too familiar, and an angel stepped into the kitchen.

“Gadreel,” Castiel said. “I should have known.”

“You really should have,” Gadreel agreed, shaking his head. “Why would Metatron bother himself with a couple of hairless apes and an angel who’s mostly fallen?”

“Maybe because we’ve already kicked your ass to Sunday,” Dean growled. “Don’t think we can’t do it again.”

“In your state?” Gadreel shook his head, unimpressed. “You got lucky the first time, Dean. It won’t happen again.”

Sam limped into the kitchen, thunking heavily down into one of the chairs. He dug his fingers into his left thigh, massaging the sore muscle. “So, where’s Metatron?”

“I wouldn’t get too comfortable,” Gadreel said, eyes gleaming.

“I was shot,” Sam said, in the exasperated way of someone who has had to repeat themselves way too often. “And I’ve been crammed into a car really not meant to hold someone my size for a lot of hours. Give me a break, will you?”

Gadreel frowned, but didn’t push it. Maybe there was something good left in him. Ezra was a dick, and Metatron was the king of all dicks, but there was something about Gadreel that made Dean think he might not be a part of the host of douches.

“I have no more patience for this,” Gadreel said, and, okay, so he was still pretty douchey. He strode towards Sam, eyes bright. “Give me Gabriel’s grace.”

“No,” Sam said.

Gadreel’s eyes widened and he took a step forward. At the same time, Castiel flicked on Dean’s lighter and dropped it to the ground. Flames sprung up to encircle Gadreel. He stumbled mid-step, but stopped before the flames could burn him up.

“CASTIEL!” Gadreel roared, whirling around on the other angel. 

Castiel's eyes were wide, but he stood his ground. “Now listen, you little bitch,” Castiel said, making Dean choke. “You're going to tell us where Metatron is.”

“Fucking hell, Cas,” Dean said, half-turned on. Castiel flicked a glance at him, then straightened and focused his glare back on Gadreel.

“Or?” Gadreel sneered.

“Well,” Sam said, easing to his feet. It wasn’t totally an act when he took the seat in front of the angel oil trap they'd laid out. Sam was a big dude, and the Impala really wasn’t meant for big dudes. “We still have a couple more Molotov cocktails.” Sam leaned closer and added, conspiratorial, “I hear angels don't die like humans. Are you prepared to completely stop existing?”

Gadreel’s lips thinned. Dean had to admit, he was a little impressed—and a little disturbed—by Sam's icy ruthlessness. “Your threats don't frighten me,” Gadreel said, lifting his chin. “You really think if Gabriel returned to power my fate would be any better? At least with Metatron I was finally let out of that fucking cage.”

“Gabriel won't force you to kill anyone,” Castiel insisted. “And if you help us, he'll make sure you're welcome back home.”

Gadreel folded his arms. “Don't make promises you can't keep, fledgling.”

“Fledgling?” Dean mouthed at Sam, who shrugged. Dean shook his head. “Look, man, are you really gonna tell me you think Megadouche is a better option than Gabriel? I mean, don't get me wrong, the guy can be annoying as hell, but he’s an archangel. Not some douche on a power trip.”

“I swear, Gadreel,” Castiel said.

Gadreel looked from Castiel to Dean and Sam. His shoulders slumped. “It’s not your oath I’m interested in, brother,” Gadreel said, then flicked his glance towards Sam.

Dean stepped in front of the surprised Sam, folding his arms over his chest. “The hell do you need his ‘oath’ for?”

Gadreel cocked his head to the side, and for a moment his resemblance to Gabriel and Castiel was uncanny. “I thought for sure Castiel would tell you,” Gadreel said, but then he frowned at Castiel. “No, I suppose he wouldn’t be able to. Anyway, Gabriel is much more likely to listen to you, Sam.”

“Oka-ay,” Sam said, slowly. A glance at Castiel and Dean’s faces told him they had no idea what Gadreel meant, either. “So are you going to help us, or are we going to kill you?”

  


  


Gabriel was in trouble.

The man standing in the middle of Sam’s apartment was unfamiliar. He was clearly a part of the God squad, bound up into some curly haired dweeb who looked a bit like a less cheerful Bob Ross. But where Gabriel had known Castiel, this guy—angel and human form—was unrecognizable. If he really was the head honcho in Heaven, Gabriel thought he probably should remember him.

The guy snapped and iron chains shot forward, weaving a barrier around Gabriel. He took a startled step back and ran into what felt like a wall. Like the salt barrier, only ice sank deep into him wherever he touched it. Yeah, this wasn’t good.

“It appears little Castiel has overdone it,” the guy tsked, shaking his head with mock sympathy. “You wouldn't believe what a pain it's been trying to get to you, Gabriel. Despite being cut off from Heaven, Castiel has done a remarkable job at protecting you. Between you and me, I think he’s been stretched a bit thin.”

Gabriel rolled his shoulders and straightened the lapels of his jacket, a study of casual disinterest. “So! You must be Metatron.” He eyed the chains. “I like what you’ve done with the place. Very Ferdinand and Isabella.”

Metatron’s upper lip curled. “Of course you don’t remember me. You archangels were always too full of yourselves to notice us lowly angels.”

“To be fair, I don’t remember much of anything,” Gabriel said, holding out his hands. “Side effect of having my grace torn out of me.” He paused, considering. “And also of being stabbed.”

The tight smile Metatron shot at Gabriel as he edged around the chains and into the kitchen wasn’t very nice. “You don't deserve Heaven,” he sneered.

“At least not the one you've created, poindexter,” Gabriel said, flatly. “Throwing out all the angels so you can build your own personal club? Did you have fun building your own fraternity? You should call it Alpha Sigma Vappa.”

“It's better than being the coward who fled from our home in the first place. Well,” Metatron said, pulling out a vial similar to the one Castiel had, “no matter. You won't be troubling me for much longer.” 

Gabriel jerked forward, eyes glued on the necklace. Liquid light swirled around the vial. “Give that to me,” Gabriel said. He held himself perfectly still, eyes fixed on the necklace.

Metatron snorted. “I'm not going to do that.” He snapped, and Sam's growler that was still half full of holy oil and an empty beer mug appeared on the kitchen table. 

“Holy oil can't kill an archangel,” Metatron said conversationally. Gabriel watched him, a tense ache beginning between his shoulder blades. “But you're not an archangel anymore. I wonder what it will do to your grace?”

He dropped the necklace in the mug, then poured the holy oil over it. 

“I imagine it will hurt,” Metatron said, then lit the top of the mug with a snap of his fingers.

It did hurt. It hurt a lot. 

A detached part of Gabriel managed to find it fascinating, that a part of him that was currently apart from him being set on fire made his own insides feel like they were being burned away. He wondered if this was how ghosts felt when their bones were salted and burned. He wondered if this was the angel equivalent of salting and burning his bones. Then he collapsed to his knees with a stuttering, choked gasp. One hand held himself up. He clutched at his chest with his other hand and coughed, a howl of agony struggling its way up his throat.

“Oh,” Metatron said, with a detached interest. “It seems like it does.”

“Y-you—sick fuck,” Gabriel managed, squeezing his eyes shut. It was just his luck that the last face he saw before he was burned away was this chucklehead. 

“Gabriel!”

Behind his closed eyes there was flash that burned red, and then there was Sam, sprinting toward the kitchen in a way that probably hurt like hell. 

Gabriel looked up. His cheeks were wet. He didn't know ghosts could cry.

“GADREEL!” Metatron was roaring, but Gabriel's entire world had narrowed to Sam diving under the chains, his large hand scrabbling at his chest to yank the other vial of grace from his neck.

“Sam—” Gabriel gasped.

Sam hurled the necklace to the ground, in front of Gabriel. The vial shattered by his hand and the room flared white.


	13. Chapter 13

Gabriel inhaled.

There was the quick, two-beat drum solo of a heart close by. It wasn't his heart—he didn't have a heart, he was dead—but it was familiar, beloved. The tempo increased until it thundered into his head and filled him down to his core. It pulsed into his bones. Thrummed into his veins and kickstarted his own heart until it was beating to the same tempo.

Gabriel gasped.

Grace burned into him, burned _out_ of him, a wild joy that couldn't be contained. Gabriel didn't even try, just let it—himself—swell up, the first desperate gasp of air after being underwater for years, and he was—

“Gabriel!”

Gabriel breathed.

Sam was staring at him, eyes big and hopeful and beautiful and Gabriel _knew_. He knew everything, everywhere. Millennia of memories hit him and he clutched at his head. It was too much. This body couldn’t handle it.

“Dean! Sam! Close your eyes!” Castiel shouted, panicked. 

Gabriel spiraled up and out of the apartment, until the earth was a grid of gray streets and buildings, and then a round blue marble spinning serenely below him, and he flung out his wings and his grace. The explosion was seen across the skies, the brightest supernova since 1006.

Gabriel _laughed_.

  


  


Castiel was shouting, panicked, “Dean! Sam! Close your eyes!”

Sam had just enough time to fling his arm over his eyes before light exploded out from Gabriel, like a star had been born in the middle of the apartment. There was a distinctly unangelic cackle and then all of the windows in Sam's apartment—in the five mile radius, Sam would later learn—blew out.

When the room stopped trembling, Sam carefully lifted his face. Dean looked just as fucked up as he felt, blood trickling from his ears and nose.

Both Castiel and Gadreel had their heads tilted back, faces shining in awe. Metatron was nowhere to be seen.

“Gabriel,” Castiel breathed.

“Where did he go?” Sam demanded.

“Up,” Castiel said.

Sam looked up, instinctively, and saw his ceiling. He hurried to his balcony, ignoring the way the glass crunched under his boots, and looked to the sky.

Even though it was the middle of the day, Sam could see a bright bow tie supernova just south of the sun. He was looking at—that was _Gabriel_ , in his true form. The archangel. 

Something painful tightened in Sam's chest. The sight was awesome, in the biblical sense, like something Sam shouldn't be allowed to see. It made his eyes burn with tears.

“Wow,” Dean said, coming up behind Sam. He sounded appropriately awestruck.

Sam couldn't say anything at all, just stared up at Gabriel until he abruptly flickered away. Something hollow yawned open in him and he turned back, rubbing his hands over his eyes. He felt more mortal in that moment than he ever had, even when looking Death in the eye. Dean clapped a hand on Sam's shoulder, for once not making a joke of things. Paradoxically, it made everything hurt so much worse, but he didn't shrug Dean away.

They walked back into the apartment. Sam felt an odd and horrible mix of relief and selfish disappointment. Gabriel was alive again and back to being an archangel. If he didn’t already have someone waiting for him (and oh God, Sam hadn’t even _thought_ about that), there was no way someone so almighty would have anything to do with a broken little human on earth.

Castiel met them halfway in the family room, grabbing both their shoulders and looking between their faces. “Thank you,” he said, earnestly, his face shining.

Sam was interested to see Dean pink up a bit at that. “Of course, Cas.”

He pulled them both into a hug that about ten different kinds of awkward, but also a little wonderful. Sam clapped Castiel’s shoulder awkwardly, before carefully disentangling himself to collapse back onto his couch. Castiel held onto Dean for long enough for it to get a little uncomfortable, but Dean wasn’t complaining.

“So now what?” Sam asked, after Castiel released a slightly flushed Dean. Someone had cleared away the chains from his kitchen, thank God. He’d have to get his windows replaced, but since every apartment was going to have to get their windows replaced, he wasn’t worried about thinking up a cover story.

Castiel glanced at Gadreel, who was staring out the window, shoulders slumped. “We will return to Heaven for the time being. Gabriel will need all the help he can get to restore order.”

“And Metatron?” Dean asked.

“Metatron’s powers came from an unnatural source,” Castiel said. “But he is not a match for Gabriel.”

“Is he going to execute him or something?” Dean asked.

“Unlikely,” Castiel said. “He cares very deeply for our brothers.”

“He’ll probably imprison Metatron,” Gadreel said, and although he didn’t tack on the ‘and me,’ Sam could hear it.

“You helped us,” Sam said. “We’ll make sure Gabriel knows.”

Gadreel nodded, tightly, before turning away and disappearing with a rustle.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean said, gruffly, scanning Castiel’s face. “Will you be back?”

Castiel reached up to slide his thumb over the side of Dean’s face in a touch so intimately personal Sam was surprised Dean allowed it. “I will do everything in my power to return to you.”

Sam suddenly found it very pressing that he search for a broom to clean up the mess of glass. In his room. With the door shut. He cleared his throat awkwardly and shuffled towards his room to do just that, but not before Castiel slid a hand around the back of Dean’s head and yanked him down for a kiss.

  


  


It had been three weeks since Gabriel got his grace back and he still hadn’t returned. Neither had Castiel. Dean hadn’t left, but it was sort of a mixed blessing: neither of them were exactly the greatest company. There were times Sam sort of wished Dean would just leave, and there were times Dean actually did leave, hiding out in The Roadhouse for several hours. But truthfully it was probably better neither of them were alone.

Dean had been handling it better than Sam in the beginning. At least Castiel had told him he’d try everything in his power to come back. So Dean had spent the time trying to keep Sam from sulking, dragging him to The Roadhouse, cooking him good food, burying him in books he’d thought Sam might be interested in. 

By the end of the second week, Dean had begun to doubt.

By the end of the third week, Dean’s mood was just as terrible as Sam’s.

This hurt like when he and Jess broke it off, only so much worse. When Jess left, she took a piece of Sam with her. These days he felt like he’d been cut in half. He almost wished Gabriel had made a clean break of it. At least that way, Sam could put the small curl of hope in his chest officially to bed.

Dean stomped out of the guest room (which was pretty much his room these days, he’d even offered to help pay the next month’s rent). He stopped by the couch, sliding his hands in his pockets and frowning down at Sam. There were dark smudges under his eyes. Sam tried to drudge up the appropriate degree of worry that Dean wasn’t getting enough sleep, but Sam doubted he looked much better.

“I’m going to the store,” Dean said, decisively.

“Okay,” Sam said.

“Need anything?”

Sam shrugged. “Nah.”

Dean frowned at him, then opened his mouth as if to deliver one of his older brother lectures. Then he sighed and nodded. “I’ll be back.”

“See ya.”

Dean grabbed his leather jacket from the coat closet and the keys to the Impala. He glanced over his shoulder at Sam one more time, before disappearing through the door.

Sam sighed, dropping his head back onto the couch cushion. This was ridiculous. He couldn’t spend the rest of his life wallowing in his apartment.

There was a thump against his front door followed by a burst of startled laughter that sounded an awful lot like Dean’s. Sam frowned and pushed himself up to see what the hell was going on.

Gabriel came striding into the room through the wall just left of the TV. Sam froze, eyes widening, but Gabriel just kept walking until he had his arms wrapped around Sam. He swept him back down onto the couch in a half-tackle.

“G-Gabriel!” Sam yelped, hands flying up to Gabriel’s waist as he crawled onto Sam’s lap, knees straddling his hips. It hurt like hell, but Sam clutched him tight in case he tried to get off again. He was solid and heavy and more real than he was even in the dreams, and although Sam had been miserable these past weeks, he felt a grin crack his own face wide open. Gabriel beamed down at him, linking his hands behind Sam’s neck.

“Hiya, Sammy,” Gabriel said. “Hells, have I missed you. Did you miss me?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Sam admitted, without any pretense of shame. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Opposite of that, actually. Heaven needed some serious TLC post-Metatron and Michael. Castiel and I have been organizing cleanup duty.” Gabriel dropped his forehead against Sam's in a light headbutt. “I can't tell you how many times I just wanted to say fuck it all and come back home, but it really was a mess up there. We had to do a total reorg.”

Home. Gabriel had called Sam's apartment home. Sam's face hurt from the force of his grin and he hauled Gabriel closer, wrapping his arms around his waist. “How did you manage to get away?”

“I did what any self-respecting CEO would do: delegated to middle management. Let's be real, no one wants me to be the Grand Puba of Heaven. Hell, _I_ don't want me to be the Grand Puba of Heaven. Actually, Cas would have been perfect for the job, but…” Gabriel’s eyes slid to the wall that separated Sam's apartment with Castiel’s, “I don't think baby bro would've have appreciated the promotion.”

“Wait,” Sam said, pulling back slightly. “So that thump I heard..?”

“Cas was a little—enthusiastic in his greeting.”

Sam laughed, shaking his head. Dean must be ecstatic. Sam’s heart felt a little like it was going to burst. He couldn’t remember a time he had been so fucking happy.

“Now that I’m me again, there’s been something I’ve been meaning to do,” Gabriel said, reaching down to pop open the front of Sam’s jeans. 

Sam huffed a small laugh. “Eager, much?” he asked, not that he was protesting _at all_.

But Gabriel’s sly fingers bypassed Sam’s half-interested cock to wrap firmly around his injured hip. Warmth flooded through his skin and into his very bones. Muscles that had been tight and stiff for the better part of a year loosened and the dull, ever present ache washed away.

“Gabriel,” Sam said on an exhale, eyes huge. He was almost afraid to ask, “What did you do?”

“Fixed your hip up,” Gabriel said, pulling his hand out from Sam’s pants to pat his hip affectionately. “I’ll be needing it in good working order from now on.”

Sam shot to his feet, rudely tumbling Gabriel onto the couch. He shifted his weight onto his bad hip. Nothing. He jumped from foot to foot. No pain. No weakness.

He had to brace himself against the wall for a moment, dizzy. Gabriel was still sprawled on the couch where Sam had dumped him, grinning up at him knowingly.

“Feel good?” Gabriel asked.

“ _Gabriel!_ ” Sam shouted, launching himself away from the wall.

“Sam.”

“I _fucking love you_!”

Gabriel's eyes lit up, as if that was a declaration he could get on board with. He laughed, bright and delighted, like Sam's exuberance was flooding out of him and into Gabriel, and caught Sam when he flung himself back onto the couch and into his arms.

“I fucking love you too, Sam!”


End file.
